Will of Iron, Heart of Gold
by Chaos Productions
Summary: In a world where ideals are embodied by entire city states, one man is on the verge of losing his battle to be different. When a freak accident mere moments from death grants him the power to stop running, and fight back for what he believes, he sets out; With an iron will and a golden heart, he will find his place in the world - and his role in the future to come.
1. Chapter 1

**Pre-Chapter A/N: ****Well, here we go. I saw the whole "OC goes to the League" trend was getting some swell reception nowadays, so I figured I'd try my hand at it myself. Here goes nothing - hope you guys enjoy it, and in advance, I'm really sorry about the chapter length xD**

**Will of Iron, Heart of Gold  
>Chapter 1<br>Symbiosis**

In a weird, twisted way, this went against each and every instance of her morality, really.

It was early – the sun had only just started to peek out over the mountaintops, bathing the somewhat forested area in a miasma of dim lights and fading shadows. It was ideal, really – the hues of her padded apparel blended rather nicely with the varying shades of grey and purple the early morning brought with it. As she darted from the base of one tree to the next, nary a sound coming from her heels, she couldn't help but let her mind wander.

It seemed odd at first, dispatching a Ranger Team to take care of one simple deserter. Usually the Demacian guard took care of such matters – as such, it greatly piqued her curiosity when she was approached with the task. After all, why would the high command expend resources and send _them_, a pair skilled in deep-cover endeavours, on a simple manhunt? This oddity had bothered her for a while, really, even after being briefed – merely learning of her target's crimes was not enough to sate her curiosity.

High above her, an eagle let out its majestic shriek – it had seen something, and that something was close by, apparently.

Quinn did not allow herself to shake her head – curious or not, her mission had been finalized and her objective had been made clear. A Demacian double agent was dead at this deserter's hand – a brave man, cruelly ripped from friends and family. She did not need to consider the offender's reasoning – the act in and of itself had struck a near-crippling blow.

She had read of the man's history in the small dossier she had attained – a lowborn citizen, orphaned by the loss of his father and two brothers to skirmishes and minor border conflicts against bandits. He had officially deserted the city state of Demacia thirteen years ago, and has been a wanted man ever since. At first, Quinn had been baffled – how had the guard struggled _thirteen years_ to catch _one_ man? Her outrage had been met with a hotly defended yet automated response from the captain – "He's a cunning one," the captain had said with no small amount of ire, "the lad can't even hold a blade right, true, but his mind's sharper than any sword."

When Quinn had confronted him with the fact that "He's smart" was not an excuse to tolerate a _thirteen year_ evasion, the captain finally blew his lid at her, exclaiming how 'one fucking deserter' didn't warrant a larger-scale manhunt as far as the higher-ups were concerned, and that if she thought she could do one better, she could go right ahead – the captain made a valid point when he said bandits, turncoats, outlaws and thieves along the borders posed a bigger problem than one simple deserter.

She sighed to herself as she sprinted through the woods – she _had_ made more progress than any hunting parties dispatched after the man, but still, the captain's words were ringing true. While she encountered very little in terms of traps and deception, her target _was_ cunning enough to elude her just long enough to make her frustration start mounting. The Guard's lax attitude and lenience towards him had allowed him to build up a network of allies and informants across all the major city states – Demacia excluded – and even some of the lesser ones. From Demacia, she had trekked to the mouth of the Howling Marsh, where her prey was last sighted, and proceeded to follow what little part of a trail she could distinguish.

While the few travellers in the areas he'd been sighted were unhelpful – whether through ignorance or, she suspected, loyalty – she could determine that he was en route the Freljord – or at least following along the Serpentine river, going by the patterns of the sightings. For but a moment, she allowed herself to ponder what his goals might have meant – but soon enough she shook those thoughts from her head as well. Within moments, her focus had reset itself –

…and was promptly shattered when a loud gunshot rang out far in the distance.

Barely a second passed between the loud report and Valor's shrill cry, alerting her to a threat further ahead. Immediately her eyes sharpened, and she darted forwards, her arms spread out beside her to help her balance in her mad dash forwards. There wasn't much wildlife in the area – at least not of the type that could be put down with a single shot – so a gunshot this far out meant trouble.

She vaulted over a fallen log with practiced ease, barely breaking stride as her eyes scanned the sky for signs of her partner. Amidst the openings in the treetops she could see Valor circling further ahead, erratically darting back and forth to try and signal where she should be heading. Quinn made the briefest of nods before drawing her crossbow, and increasing her speed even more. Whether this was her target or not, if someone was being attacked by a suspect individual it was her duty to assist – regardless of the cause of the conflict.

Another gunshot ran out, and as if nature itself wished to prove her wrong, a bloodthirsty howl followed it – more than likely a wolf or at the most, some form of rabid dog. Nonetheless, these things moved in packs; whoever was in their sight was a dead man if he fought alone. As if waiting for that exact train of thought, she saw Valor bear his talons and fold his wings to his side, diving down into the treeline with a fierce shriek. Another howl followed, closer this time, a clear sign that Quinn herself was gaining ground at a suitable pace. Another howl echoed through the trees, and another gunshot answered it; by this time Quinn was close enough to hear a pained yelp.

From that point it was all systematic – her eyes narrowed, her breathing slowed and her footfalls lost all sense of noise. Despite being a Ranger for a long time, Quinn new better than to approach a pack of wild animals gung-ho – if there was a third party involved, there was much more at stake.

It was then that the smell assaulted her, and her mind immediately comprehended where the wolves had come from. The unique aroma of burning meat filled her nostrils, and given the wind that travelled in-between it was no wonder a pack of beasts followed it.

From the bushes before her she heard a sound that made even her recoil – whether through caution or fear was unknown. She had come to know the sound well, during her time with Institute of War – countless times she had encountered Nidalee, the Bestial Huntress, on the Summoner's Rift, and countless times she had heard that _exact_ same snarl – it was a warning, a premonition, a boast and a challenge; the sound of a predator about to take down its prey. She tried to dash faster, tilting her torso forwards even more, but in vain – the snarl had turned into a vicious bark, and a woman's voice screamed a gurgled note of pain shortly thereafter, just before a final gunshot spelled silence.

She didn't dare slow down – she burst through the bushes and into the clearing just as a large, black wolf leapt back from a wandering young woman. Part of its foreleg had been shredded by shrapnel – likely from the woman's now-discarded shotgun – but its lips and fangs were covered in blood that most certainly wasn't its own. As the wounded woman stumbled back, clutching a weeping bite on her neck, the injured wolf hopped back, turning its hellish yellow gaze on Quinn. Two more wolves – the last ones remaining, judging by the buckshot-riddled corpses in the clearing – quickly stepped in front of their injured pack mate, bearing their fangs and snarling at the newcomer. One of them had some interesting scars across its snout – almost as though it had been raked by a set of talons.

She didn't blink – her focus was split between the beast in front of her, and the wounded civilian slumped against a far tree. She had little worry for the two wolves before her – she _was_ a Demacian Ranger, after all – but the slightest erroneous movement could spell the difference between a quick skirmish and a drawn-out battle. She had to wait for the right moment – the right opportunity…

Said opportunity promptly dove through the treetops again, uttering his majestic cry as his talons flexed again.

That was her cue. She darted the moment the wolves did – while one leapt and nipped and tried feebly to attack Valor, the other charged right at her, murderous intent gleaming in its eyes. A normal person would have had trouble with the larger-than-average beast; be it a conflict between fear and fight-or-flight, a normal person wouldn't have survived such a lunge.

Fortunately, Quinn wasn't a normal person – by any standard.

A flurry of bolts flew from her crossbow with speed and reflex only one such as herself could lay claim to, and the wolf before her crashed to the ground mid-leap, its forelegs skewered. It skidded towards her; the friction on its injured legs made the beast whine before coming to a stop. It glared at her from its grounded position, and for but a moment it was as though as a primal fear bloomed in its eyes – right before Quinn plugged another bolt in between its eyes.

The other wolf was already charging at her, ignoring Valor's attempts to hinder it. This one had gained a fair bit more momentum than it's now-dead pack mate – it lunged at her with ferocity to shame even the Bestial Huntress, its fangs bared and seeking blood. She didn't allow this to make her waver – quickly and efficiently she let one leg slide sideways out from under her, and she dipped down just as the beast's paws left the ground. The mass of fangs and hair flew over her, it's shadow hiding the quick check she did of her custom crossbow, and the two turned to face each other in unison.

This time it was _her_ turn to lunge.

A myriad of battles on the Summoner's Rift had left her with a mastery of quick lunges towards her foes. Like a hawk, she darted forwards, crossbow aimed, eyes narrowed and focus steeled. The wolf tried to dash towards her; it snarled and bore its fangs again – and yelped as the heel of Quinn's boot caught it flush on the snout. Putting all her weight into her leg, Quinn forced the beast's snout down into the ground, where a sickening _snap_ met her ears, and without a moment's hesitation she flipped backwards, clearing admirable distance between herself and the injured wolf. She aimed and landed at the same time, proof of rigorous training and awe-inspiring skill, and before the second wolf could even recover, it too had a bolt between its eyes.

She had her crossbow trained on the remaining wolf before its pack mate had even hit the ground.

For but a moment she hesitated – for just a moment she thought of leaving the injured one, letting it escape to seek refuge, or at least find a more peaceful end. But the sight of human blood smeared across its snout rendered that option obsolete – any wild beast that had tasted human blood had to be put down. She allowed herself but a blink as her finger applied the merest hint of pressure to the trigger, and much to her surprise, the wolf seemed to exhale – as if making peace.

The crossbow delivered its final silent report, and the last wolf fell.

There was no time to catch her breath, though – quickly rushing to the injured woman's side, she holstered her crossbow and knelt down. The woman seemed like your typical mercenary, really – mix and matched armor, dark leathers and sturdy materials and a traditional shotgun anyone could purchase in a back-alley in Bilgewater. Briefly she wondered if this woman was new to the career – whether she had bitten off more than she could chew – but the bitterness in her eyes told a different story.

She grit her teeth as Quinn applied pressure to the gaping wound in her neck – three fingers was adequate to stem the flow of blood, and to her great fortune, no vital artery had been ruptured. It showed on the woman's face – the cold sweat was there, but she was everything but pale.

"Figures," the mercenary spat bitterly, "dad always said I'd go out in such a stupid way." Despite the negativity, though, Quinn sensed the torrent of fear hidden in the woman's voice. "That… That bitch… She told me this would be an easy bounty… Find the deserter, apprehend him…" She paused, coughing harshly, before spitting a wad of blood out on the ground. "If I knew… If I knew that _fucker_ was so smart I would never have…" She coughed again, and a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. "Fuck sakes, this isn't worth a hundred silvers…" She sniffed. "This was supposed to be easy…"

Quinn allowed her gaze to soften slightly. It seemed as though she was right after all – this was just a young woman who'd gotten in way over her head. "Shh. Rest easy," she said softly as she fumbled in the small travel pack she brought along for medical supplies. "What's your name?" Keep her talking at least, Quinn thought – anything to keep the woman from blacking out or having a panic attack. "How old are you even?"

"D-Does that even matter now…" The woman rasped, shivering slightly as Quinn applied a thick wad of gauze to the wound. "Thing went for my neck… I'm done for…" She sighed. "Name… Name's Yalia. I'm t-" She interrupted herself again with a cough, this one nowhere near as harsh. "I'm twenty-two…"

"Yalia…" Quinn mused as she continued her work patching up the woman's wound. "Why would you turn to mercenary work at such a young age?"

"M-Mercenary?" Yalia shuddered. "I wouldn't dream of it. I'm just… just a bounty hunter. I go after lightweight stuff… With people like the Battle Mistress and the G-Grandmaster at Arms operating as mercs…" She coughed lightly again. "I'm just a girl with a gun. How can I even compete?"

"Well Yalia," Quinn said with a soft smile, "I've got good news for you. The injury is quite raw, and in need of disinfection, but it didn't hit a vital artery. You're going to live." Nothing more needed to be said – Quinn remained silent as she observed the woman's face; the expression of shock that had appeared at first quickly melted into of utmost relief, and pretty soon Quinn found it difficult to keep working due to the fact that Yalia had started laughing uncontrollably. "So what happened here, Yalia?"

"The…" Yalia chuckled again, before calming herself. "The fucking bounty happened, that's what," she sighed listlessly. "God… That woman told me he was a nerdy type, but damn," she chuckled again, pointing to a tree behind Quinn. "I… I wasn't expecting that."

The Ranger turned to look where the young bounty huntress was pointing and – much to her surprise – saw discarded carcasses, belonging to rabbits and ferrets, strung up amidst the trees. Grudgingly, she admitted it had been just outrageous enough to work, according to the dead wolves in the clearing. While they didn't normally feast on carcasses, the scent of blood meant prey – and they found prey this time, even if it wasn't the owner of the scent.

"Got no idea how long the things were stalking us. Think my gunshot set them off, though… Came out of fucking nowhere, the mongrels…" Yalia said shakily. "Oh, gods… The adrenaline's wearing off…"

"Yalia," Quinn addressed the woman, easily capturing her attention – it would help nobody if she passed out now. "You were talking about a bounty. Tell me about him."

"That fuck… Bastard's been avoiding me all the way from Mogron Pass… Lost track of him there. I know for a fact he's heading to the Freljord – so I… I planned ahead. I learned he's a bookish sort – loves studying old languages and stuff. Saw a ruin not too far up ahead, thought he'd shelter there… I tried to set up an ambush but… Fuck sakes," She said with a hint of bitterness. "The person I paid for the info told me he's a useless soldier – can't even hold a dagger properly. Naturally I thought it would be easy money… But he's a slippery little fuck."

"We know that much," Quinn nodded, unclipping a canteen of water from her belt and offering it to the bounty huntress. "He's been on the run for thirteen years."

"_Thirteen fuckin y-_" To her credit, Yalia caught herself just before going off on a rant. "I was never going to catch him, was I?" She asked with a groan as she shifted herself upright. "Bastard… All that wasted coin…" Her eyes narrowed. "But you're tracking him as well, aren't you?" When she saw Quinn nod, she smiled ruefully. "I think… I think I might have been some help after all," she mumbled as she shuffled to the side, wincing once or twice, before retrieving her discarded shotgun. "Buckshot," she said simply as she held the gun up. "My first shot managed to shred his arm. I doubt all the pellets hit, but enough of them tore in to make a mist of sorts," she said shakily. "You Rangers are the tracking sort, no? I'm sure he left a blood trail for you to follow."

If not for her professional demeanour Quinn would have let her relief show on her face there and then. _Finally_, after two long weeks on the road, she had a solid trail to follow. "How far up ahead are the ruins?"

"'Bout half a kilo," Yalia said shakily. She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself, before using her shotgun to try and rise to her feet. Quinn, quick on the uptake, moved forwards to assist the woman – a gesture that was much appreciated, going by Yalia's relaxed, if shaky exhale. "You can't miss it, it's got this big bloody broken statue on it. Entrance is halfway collapsed and the statue's covered with vines and moss but it still sticks out," she said as soon as she was on her feet. She had one hand against a tree trunk, to keep steady. "I've already checked it – there's nothing inside, it's just a round room." Then she smirked, a hint of smugness behind the fatigue on her face. "Should be real easy for you now."

Quinn allowed herself a smile and a nod. "Thank you, Yalia. The assistance, and the information, is much appreciated. But are you sure you're good to walk?"

"Pft," the bounty huntress shrugged. "Not dead yet. I can keep walking," she said hotly, taking a step forward, then another. Quinn watched with equal parts curiosity and reluctance as Yalia made it about ten meters, before stumbling slightly and grabbing onto a nearby tree for support. "Oh, fuck me… This… might be a long trip." She sighed, and took a deep breath. "Well, only two kilos to the nearest road… I figure I'll make it before nightfall," she said as she turned around to smile at Quinn. Cold sweat still matted her forehead, but at the very least she looked a bit livelier. "By the way; the person who told me where to find his trail? She's in Bilgewater. Real frigid bitch by the looks of it, and two-faced to boot."

"Thank you," Quinn nodded, "for the information and the assistance. Are you entirely sure you'll be able to make the journey to the road?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out now, isn't there?" Yalia responded with a cheeky grin. "Worst comes to worst I'll crawl all the way. No way in hell am I spending a minute longer on this asshole's tail." She coughed again. "So help me, as soon as I get ho-Ohshit!" She yelped loudly as she stumbled again, but managed to retain her balance without using a tree. "Gods above… As soon as I get home I'm getting shitfaced. Then I'm selling all this – no more bounty hunting for me. Fuck that."

Sighing and smiling despite herself, Quinn quickly strode over to the former bounty huntress. "Yalia," she called, unclipping a small piece of brass from her chest and placing it in the other woman's hand. "If you've tracked him that long you'll need some proper rest first," she said. "Take this to Captain Crownguard in Demacia, and tell him you helped me on a mission. He'll see to it that you're tended to."

At first Yalia seemed flabbergasted – a whole variety of confused syllables left her mouth, before she finally regained her composure, smiling sadly. "T-Thank you, ma'am. I'll, er… I'll tell that Crownlord bloke to send some people to… Uhm… I don't know, escort you back or something? Damn, I'm bad at this," she said, shaking her head and turning slowly, maintaining her balance as she started her trek to the main road. "Uhm… Thanks again, ma'am," she said sheepishly.

Quinn merely nodded and smiled, offering a small salute as the former bounty huntress waddled away. She'd send Valor overhead to scour the area after she apprehended her target – for now, sadly, their mission came first.

All traces of casual behaviour disappeared the moment Yalia disappeared into the foliage – with her determination set and focus reforged, she darted forwards again, dashing past trees at such a speed her peripheral view started blurring. Half a kilo, she said – five hundred meters, and she had already covered one – two, now. Above her she heard Valor shriek again – he must have spotted the run. When she reached the halfway mark her keen eyesight started picking up traces that verified Yalia's story – blood caked several leaves leading forwards, and the bark of a tree close by had shattered under the impact of a small bullet. _Good_, she thought, _almost there_.

Lo and behold, at a hundred and fifty meters left, she saw. It was actually quite well hidden by normal standards – centuries of shrubbery and foliage had done well hiding the ruin from sight. From afar it seemed like a chapel or a crypt, a small, cylindrical building with a stone door that had, over time, crumbled along the top half. _Perfect,_ she thought, slowing her pace down to a stalk. Wordlessly, she held out her arm, and within moments, Valor was perched there, soundless, but focused – there was a glare to his eyes that belied his calm appearance.

Silently, footstep by silent footstep, she crept closer to the temple. Yalia had been true to her word – even from twenty meters away, Quinn could see the bloodstains trailing across the leaves and up the stone door. How the deserter had managed to scale it with a shredded arm – a _very _shredded arm, by the looks of all the blood – was beyond her. Nonetheless, the questions could come later, when the target was in a cell in Demacia; not here, barely ten meters from his hiding place.

Closer and closer she crept, and in synchrony with her distance to the building she _felt_ Valor's body tense. There was an unspoken plan, a mutual agreement without words or communication, in their posture. Born from years of working together, they'd achieved a rate of synchronicity, of _understanding_, that other falconers and beast users could only dream of. As such, it was only natural that their arrest would go off without a hitch.

She stopped in front of the ruined door, crouched low, with Valor on one arm and her crossbow in the other.

And then they engaged.

Valor shot off her arm just as she leapt upwards, crossbow already aimed dead-centre before her. The Demacian Eagle let out a loud shriek, a scare tactic they'd employed countless times before, and in response, Quinn came to rest on the ruined edge of the door, her bow aimed right at –

_A breeze?_

Quinn's mind processed that something was off _long_ before her eyes actually adjusted to the dark – not that they needed much time to, with the ominous, dim red light emanating from the center of the room. That, coupled with the fact that there was a _breeze_ in a building with no windows or excess vents, told her immediately that this was _much _more than a simple one-room ruin. Crossbow still aimed in front of her, she used her free hand to pull a lighter from her pocket, striking it once. While the flame was small, the lighting it proved was enough to guide her forward. She dismounted from the stone half-door, dropping to the cold floor just as Valor signalled the all-clear, and crouched down.

Again, she shuddered to herself – her target was losing a _lot_ of blood; she had to hurry – her orders were to apprehend him alive, so he could be dealt with in a 'just' manner befitting of their proud city state. If he died now… She frowned to herself. If her target died she'd be sending that young woman to a guaranteed apprehension.

That would _not_ stand.

Readying her crossbow, she strode forward, keeping her pack of medical supplies within arm's reach. The blood trail was erratic, as though her target had stumbled and fell, thus justifying the large pool of blood. What it _didn't_ explain was the source of the dim red lights.

_Runes,_ she thought with a click of her tongue, _or something very close to it. Is this… Is this blood magic?_

From the pool of blood, a downright lavish array of runic markings had lighted up, forming an almost ethereal pathway to the end of the small crypt. They were written in a language she couldn't even begin to comprehend, an amalgam of brash tribal markings and abstract shapes and lines that seemed more suited to the Void Walker's robe than a simple ruin's floor. The blood trail continued onward, and as she stepped forward the breeze assaulted her again, filling her nostrils with a riverside scent. Her eyes narrowed.

There was a passage ahead.

Further and further she crept, until she found the offending orifice – at the end of the runic pathway it seemed as though a set of stones had given way, each sinking lower than the former in order to form an elaborate yet crude spiral staircase, descending into what she assumed would be some kind of spring beneath the river, or at the very least a cavern near it.

Those cramped quarters spelled murder on her tactics, though – if she was looking at a series of narrow hallways, Valor's effectiveness would see a rapid decline; not to mention her partner was basically a sitting duck, or, well, a sitting eagle. Sighing to herself, she started formulating a plan – the scent of the riverside meant that wherever this passage lead_ had_ to exit along the Serpentine River, and the fact that the breeze was striking her with such gusto meant it was likely close by, and had a very large mouth at the side of… wherever it exited.

Steeling her resolve, she turned to her trusted companion and put her plan into motion.

"Val," she called to eagle. "This tunnel leads somewhere that has an entrance next to the river. I want to fly ahead and find it – something that lets a breeze of this size through has got to be a cavern of sorts. We'll meet up there – and catch this guy."

Valor, to his credit, only shot her as incredulous a look an eagle could, before squawking once in affirmation and spreading his wings, taking flight through the ruined doorway.

Turning back to the staircase, Quinn took a deep breath, before descending down into the abyss.

* * *

><p>His time in the Freljord had been good.<p>

No, scratch that – it had been _very_ good. Now, being the individual he was, it was quite rare for him to actually _emphasize_ an experience. He liked to think of himself as a very simple person, despite his reputation – he had no little tags or definitions, no hype, no melancholy or nonchalance; that which was good was good, and that was good enough, and that which was bad was bad, and that lead to a curbstomp – normally at his own hands, and not at all because of his actions. Well, at least not always because of his actions – eh, details.

He _did_ say he was a simple person, didn't he?

As such, when something was actually good (or bad) enough to make him add a little descriptor – even the tiniest of ones, like a simple 'very' – it usually meant whatever event was involved was something major, and majorly successful at that.

Such could easily describe his time in the Freljord. He had, at first, thought he'd simply be paying the Avarosan territory a visit to have a drink with his old friend, Gragas. This, surprisingly, marked the first time in a long, long while where his predictions had actually been an underestimation. The 'drink' in question was more of a string of fun and havoc, in which he and Gragas had crawled from one bar-slash-tavern-slash-drinking spot to the next, cleaning out entire barrels of grog and showing the Avarosan people what the word 'bar fight' _really_ meant.

So what if it had scored him the ire of almost every citizen in Rakelstake? It wasn't as though there was anyone there who could _do_ anything to The Champ.

Such were the merry recollections of Jax, the Grandmaster at Arms, as he enjoyed a comfortable stroll down the side of the Serpentine River, occasionally pausing to polish his trusty brass lamppost – usually against some poor bear or wolf's facial fur. Yes, his time in the Freljord had been a hearty one indeed, and although he had received quite an (ignored) earful from Queen Ashe, the fact that Tryndamere had grinned at him when his wife wasn't looking showed him at least he and Gragas had gained another drinking buddy out of the ordeal.

Nonetheless, his time in the Avarosan territory had to be cut short, due to a notification from the Institute. That Kolminye woman had apparently gotten wind of his activities in Rakelstake and threatened to have him reverse-summoned if he didn't 'cease his foolishness' immediately. As if she was his boss. He'd prepared quite the earful to give her when he got back, that was for sure. For now, though, he enjoyed his little stroll back to the Institute. It wasn't as though he was passive-aggressively spiting the High Councillor by strolling _extra_ slowly – not at all. It was merely a beautiful day; why not enjoy it to its fullest?

It was at this very moment that something very particular caught his eye; there, in the distance, a giant hole was carved into the side of a small mountain – a cave mouth, almost in the form of a real mouth. Normally such a thing wouldn't even pique the interest of the Grandmaster at Arms, really – after all, what could possibly be interesting about a cave? Caves were smelly, damp places fit for insects and bats and people like that Laurent woman – not a Champion like himself. What was _unique_, though, was the fact that this cave mouth was weeping bats like it was no tomorrow.

Bats did not like light – the Grandmaster knew this much, no, _proved_ this much; he even put it to test once by shining a floodlight into Kolminye's face. So whatever could cause such a large amount of them to flee into the bright midday sun normally meant something interesting nearby. Interesting somethings nearby often meant opportunities for detours and side-trips – and detours and side-trips meant more ways to spite the High Counc-er, more ways to _enjoy_ this _beautiful_ day.

At that, the Grandmaster at Arms reached his decision; he shifted his pack, tightened his grip on his trusty brass lamppost, and started his trek towards the frowning cave mouth.

* * *

><p>After a few tense, claustrophobic moments of travel, Quinn had finally exited the narrow, tightly-wound passageway and stepped into a monumental cavern. She had been moving on a downward slope for most of the journey so she had gathered she was somewhere beneath the Serpentine River now. What she wasn't expecting was the sheer magnitude of the cavern – in the bright light flowing through a massive tear in the ceiling she could see stalagmites hanging <em>easily<em> three-hundred or so meters above her. The crack in the cavern roof _flooded_ it with light, a phenomenon she was sure Luxanna would take inherent joy in explaining, and in that misty light she could see the makings of an ancient ruin that made even _her_ gape.

From where she was standing now, a simple rock jutted out against an ornamental pathway carved into the side of the stone; the attention to detail, with every tile holding a different rune and every little part of the handrail having an intricate floral design, left her speechless. How in the hell had all _this_ stayed hidden for so long? And so close to Demacia no less? In the back of her mind, behind the professional code driving her to track and apprehend her target as soon as possible, she made a note of inform Luxanna of this place – she could relay it to the Prodigal Explorer.

Slowly, her eyes followed the elaborate stone walkway, easily wide enough to fit five men shoulder-to-shoulder, and started taking in the details as she darted forwards, leaping over the handrail and onto the path. Above her, bats were pouring out from between the stone formations, fleeing towards the crack in the cavern ceiling as though a bird of prey itself was on their heels. There were hundreds of them, easily, seeing like a swarm of bees from where she stood – and then she saw him.

Even more than two-hundred meters away, she could tell the deserter was in bad shape. He was almost drunkenly shambling forwards, clutching his right arm – the tanned leather of his coat was stained black from the blood, even from this distance. She couldn't see his face through the mane of dark hair cascading down his back and across his shoulders, but she wagered he must have been grimacing with every step. Despite herself, she felt worry bloom in her chest – he had lost enough blood to _kill_ a normal man; the fact that he was still walking alone beggared belief.

But even the strongest willed men could not stave off death forever – criminal or no, that man needed help.

With that in mind she darted forwards – he had gained quite a bit of ground, as was heading towards an altar suspended in the middle of the cavern, at the centre of the bright light flooding the room. He was much higher on the upward slope as well – the statues lining the side of the walkway further ahead meant this was likely a ceremonial area. As she continued her silent dash forwards she did her best to remain undetected – hopefully he wouldn't even hear her approach. It would be quick and simple – she'd take him down and restrain him, and get to work on his injury. The rest of her plan… As much as she hated to admit it, the rest of her plan depended on hope; hope that she could get him to the main road and to a healer before he passes on.

And at that precise moment, one of the runes she stepped on crack.

It was odd, the way a simple _crack_ of stone could echo across a cavern and make it sound as though a whole cupboard of glass had been poured onto the floor. Even the bats' incessant chirping was drowned out by the way the simple noise became a cacophony. Her heart nearly stopped along with her footsteps – of _all _the things that could go wrong…

Slowly, her target stumbled to the side, resting his uninjured arm against a statue next to him, and slowly turned around.

Again, Quinn found herself beginning to worry – the pallor of his skin was nothing short of nightmarish; with a bit more than a hundred meters between them, Quinn could see the veins spanning his cheeks with clarity. Bloodshot eyes gazed at her, blinking away cold sweat and dizziness as it took in her features – and to her horror, recognition dawned in them when he saw the blue and gold colour scheme representing Demacia.

Then his eyes dropped, and he saw the crossbow in her hand – the one she had, in her worry, forgot to holster.

She could have slapped herself then and there – what a _rookie_ mistake to make.

"Now…" She began, her lips suddenly dry, much to her ire. "Now don't freak out okay?"

That, obviously, was the wrong choice of words.

Summoning yet more of the willpower that kept him from death's door, Quinn's target wrapped his fingers around the statue's base and gave it a hard tug. The two-or-so meter stone display tumbled onto the walkway and, due to the sheer slope, started tumbling right towards her. Her target didn't wait a second longer – with a pained grunt she could hear even from that distance, he broke into a dead sprint, or at least what could pass as one for his nearly-dead body. Despite injury and blood loss, despite fatigue and dizziness – the man could run for his life if he needed to.

Quinn grit her teeth as the statue came rolling towards her. "Garret!" She yelled after her target, finally resorting to using his first name, hoping to at least stall him, or make him pause. "Garret, don't be stupid! You'll kill yourself!" She clicked her tongue. The statue tumbling towards her was just wide enough to force her to time her leap right if she wanted to avoid it – and to make matters worse, Garret was already pulling another from its perch. She took a deep breath – the young man was no doubt going to ignore anything and everything she said from here on. If wanted to help him now – if she wanted to _save_ him – she'd have to _force_ him to accept the gesture.

With several loud thuds the first statue neared her. She bent her knees, barely blinking as she focused. Even her heart rate slowed, granting her just that tiny bit of extra help she needed. When the circular, tiki-esque tube was about to meters from her, she braced her legs, and _leapt._

The feeling of that statue scuffing her heels was one she wouldn't soon want to experience again.

She landed on both her feet, cracking more runes as she tucked into a roll, and just she straightened out a tremendous _crash_ met her ears. She actually flinched backwards – her hand went for the crossbow she had holstered when she started her pursuit, but to her relief she didn't need to use it. Garret had managed to pull the second statue off its pedestal, and when it had struck the walkway it had promptly _shattered_ the stone path beneath its weight. Quinn took several steps forwards, inspecting the damage – by the time extra parts of the walkway had stopped chipping and falling off, a good five meter gap stood between her and her target. "Dammit, Garret…" She grit her teeth again. "I'm trying to _help _you!"

"I do not…" Garret's voice was weak, even to her own trained senses. Yet no amount of fatigue, no amount of blood loss could make it weak enough to hide the disdain it held. He was struggling to catch his breath, and a trickle of blood had poured from the corner of his mouth. He cast her a dismissive glance as he took a few steps back. "…I do not _want…_ your _help_…!"

"Dammit, Garret…" She cursed softly as he turned tail and hobbled towards the centre altar. Her brow creased with frustration and worry – despite him being her mission, she really _was_ set on helping him; that wound was looking worse with every glance she took at it, and she truly wondered if it wouldn't be necessary to amputate the whole limb. Nonetheless, a simple gap would not deter her – a few quick hops backwards put her at a suitable distance to clear the chasm before her with a good leap. She glanced up at the altar again…

…just in time to see her target collapse right before he disappeared out of sight.

She clicked her tongue again. The harsh angle of the walkway rendered her incapable of determining Garret's condition now. So, with nothing else to, she bent her knees, swayed back _just_ a bit, and launched herself forward with a speed even she was unused to. The distance she'd put between herself and the chasm disappeared in the blink of an eye and through a combination of skill, timing and technique, she had leapt just as her heel hit the edge of the broken walkway.

The five-meter gap was cleared in but a second, and with a harsh _thud_ Quinn landed on the other side, tucking into a roll and popping back onto her feet at a speed downright unnatural in the eyes of anyone who didn't know the Ranger by now. She opted this time to keep her crossbow holstered, and instead pulled the small first-aid kid from her small pack, making sure to keep it in plain sight as she rushed towards her target.

She had barely laid eyes on his slumped form when she heard the ominous sound of a pistol getting cocked.

A standoff, she realized as she gazed at her target. He was slumped against a small pedestal in the middle of the large altar-like platform, sitting with his back resting against it. He looked as though he could keel over any moment, with those bloodshot eyes and pale skin, and the erratic, laboured breathing ease that thought. Yet still, despite everything, he managed to keep the loaded pistol aimed at her.

A glint caught her eye then, and for but a moment she allowed herself to be distracted. An old, withered bladed weapon, seemingly made of cracked bronze, was floating atop the pedestal Garret was leaning against. It seemed brittle – as every other item in the cavern – and once more Quinn wondered for but a moment how this had not been discovered yet.

A cough from Garret forced her to refocus her attention, and cautiously, she took a step forward. "Are you…" Garret heaved, his eyes unfocused and hazy. "… Are you the one who… who tracked me all the way from Mogron…?" He allowed himself a bitter chuckle. "You... Demacia's Wings… You are as… as good as they say… ma'am…"

She took another step forward. "Garret," she started, her voice low and urgent. "Please, _please _listen to me; you have no idea how much blood you lost. If you don't stop this, Garret… If you don't _let me help you_," she said with emphasis, "you… you're going to die, Garret…"

Garret, much to his credit, responded with a tired chuckle. "You… You think I am a dead man now?" He rasped. "I've been dead since I l-left… Thirteen years now," he said morosely. "I… I barely even troubled you…" He heaved. "I just wanted peace… T-To be left alone… and you wouldn't even grant me that…"

"None of that matters right now, Garret," Quinn said, taking another cautious step forwards. "As far as I'm concerned now, there's no Demacia – no infractions, no desertions, no crimes… Just a wounded, dying man in front of me," she said, raising the first-aid kit, "and the tools to try and save him, right here in my hand."

Garret started coughing at this, a few chuckles worked in between the fits, and before long it had evolved into an almost tragic bout of laughter. All the while, the pistol remained trained on Quinn's centre of mass. "You… You really think…" He rasped, locking eyes with her. "I… I mean no disrespect, ma'am," he said affably, "but… I refuse… to be left at the mercy of… of one of Demacia's lapdogs."

"Now I know you're not serious," Quinn responded crisply, taking yet another step forward. She was barely five meters from Garret's fallen form now. "You've fought tooth and nail for the peace you wanted, Garret. _Thirteen years_, you ran, hid and fought – I refuse to believe you're stubborn enough to let that all go to waste." From the corner of her eye, she saw _his_ silhouette on the ground – as quickly as the shadows of his wingspan appeared, they were gone – hidden outside the ray of light.

_Perfect_, she though. _Atta boy, Val._

Garret chuckled again, oblivious to the bird of prey stalking the shadows. "Well, ma'am," he started. "You… are correct that I've fought for so long… Heh… A few years ago that show of re... reverse psychology would have worked," he rasped. "But look at me now; tired, battered, wounded… Dying here… or going to back to Demacia, to rot in a cell," at this point his voice grew harsher, _fiercer_, "for a crime I did not even commit… I… I see no difference, ma'am." He made a show of applying a faint bit of pressure to the pistol's trigger. "I… am not going back, ma'am," he said ruefully, and for a but a moment, Quinn's sharp eyesight observed the cloud of sorrow in his eyes. "The D-Demacian Ideal… It took everything from me…" He said with a frown. "I… I will not let it have my life as well. S-So… Either use that h-hawk like speed of yours – draw your bow, and end this now," he said icily, "or gods above, I'll have the Crown send someone who will – in response to a murder I _did_ commit."

The statement – the _threat_ – left a silence in the air the likes of which Quinn had never experienced before, and with a sinking feeling, she realized… For all the courteousness he had shown so far, he was not going to budge. Her entire body tensed against her will – it was a realization that the worst had a _very_ likely chance of coming to pass. She had a plan, though – she was hoping she wouldn't need to initiate it, because of _risky_ it was – but now she had no choice. She twitched fingers of her free hand, hoping it would seem to Garret as though she was planning to reach for her crossbow – and then with a simple movement, she formed the hand signal that started the ball rolling.

Garret had a single, precious second to ponder just what the hell his pursuer had done.

Calling it an arrow was inadequate – like a speeding bullet, Valor came diving out from the shadows, tearing towards the fallen deserter at such a speed the poor man could only look on in confusion and shock as the eagle's talon's raked outwards, intent on seizing the pistol right from the weakened man's grasp. It was all part of Quinn's plan – Valor would disarm him and she would apply medical aid – whether Garret wanted her to or not.

It was a very good plan, given its spur-of-the-moment nature – but in her worry, in her _haste_, Quinn had forgotten to factor one element into her plans:

Outside involvement.

It happened in the blink of an eye – just before Valor could seize the pistol a sharp, jagged rock came flying from the shadows, intercepting the bird's course and making him hastily spread its wings to alter its course.

Quinn was already reaching for her crossbow by the time the purple and blue blur leapt from the darkness. As her hand closed around her grip she heard the wind whistle about an object as the intruder took a vicious swing at her partner at a speed even she struggled to keep track of. She wasted no more time – as Valor backed away from their assailant she drew her crossbow with every ounce of the hawk-like speed Garret had mentioned, and fired three precise, controlled bolts at the invader.

She then _felt_ her jaw drop as all three were parried out of mid-air by a flailing weapon.

For a moment, silence reigned as Quinn heard her bolts clatter to the floor – and during the lull in action, her eyes widened. Before her stood a face – and a weapon – she had come to know all too well. A pit of ice formed in her stomach as spiteful remembrance invaded her mind; here stood someone she had _never_ wanted to meet outside the Fields of Justice. In the breeze coming from above, purple clothing swayed a blue tussle attached to a hood danced almost _ominously_ in Quinn's own opinion, and the multiple blue eyes staring at her from under that hood did nothing to ease her sudden fear and worry.

Before her, a battered brass lamppost twirled ominously.

She felt her teeth gnash as grim realization set in.

"Jax…"

…_Shit._

"Well," the Grandmaster at Arms spoke smugly, standing with himself positioned right between Quinn and her target. "When I decided to see what was making the bats so crazy I wasn't expecting this."

"Grandmaster," Quinn addressed him neutrally. "May I ask why you attacked us?"

"You sicced your chicken on an injured man," Jax shrugged. "That's reason enough, ain't it?"

Quinn took a deep breath. The situation had gone from precarious to nightmarish in a matter of seconds, and the Grandmaster's aloof demeanour wasn't helping matters. "Jax," she started again, cautiously. "You're interfering in Demacian state business. That man –"

"It's 'Demacian business' to go around kicking injured people while they're down?" Jax interrupted her, tilting his head quizzically. In one hand, the battered brass lamppost was still pointed to her – and the amount of trepidation she felt was no less because of it. The other hand, though, quickly moved to a small pouch on his hip, and after a moment of fishing around in it, Jax withdrew what he was looking for – a small vial filled with red liquid.

"That's…" Quinn felt her jaw drop. "What… How did you even…?"

"I'm just that good," Jax shrugged again, before turning to look at Garret's fallen form. "Down this, buddy," he said, passing the small potion to the deserter. "You look like you could use the boost. And you can put that down," he said, motioning to the pistol still clutched in the young man's hand. "I ain't letting this woman near you. Drink up, heal up, get up and follow the pathway behind you. I'll just be a minute longer," Jax said, turning to face Quinn again. He took up the fighting stance he always used on the Summoner's Rift, and Quinn felt adrenaline kick in merely at the sight of it. "I just need to get the rest of your meds," Jax said ominously, eyeing the small field aid kit Quinn still had clutched in her hand.

For a moment, Quinn could do nothing but stare at the look of complete _gratitude_ that bloomed on Garret's face. Bloodshot eyes nearly _glowed_ with new hope as he pulled the stopper out of the vial and started drinking the potion as though he hadn't had a drop to drink in days.

The ball of ice in Quinn's stomach intensified. Her options were running out, she feared – while she and Valor made a near-unstoppable team, this was _Jax_ they were facing. The Grandmaster at Arms, Valoran's greatest weapons master – and this time, Jax didn't have any silly sanctions holding him down. "Jax, _please_," she said urgently. "The charges made against him -"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard the little speeches," Jax interrupted her casually, looking at Garret. "Saying something like that, and meaning it? Shit, buddy, you must really hate that place." He turned back to face Quinn. "Alright now look here, Chickadee. I've got about _this_ much time," he indicated with his fingers, "to get back to the Institute of War, and every minute I spend here is more reason for Kolminye to shit on me. So I'll cut you a deal, Ranger: Leave that kit here and report to your superiors; tell them Jax took your little suspect down to the Institute, where he won't get manhandled for answers he might not even have." He shrugged. "You get your mission complete, I get to placate that demonic woman with some political contribution or some shit like that and this guy," he motioned to Garret, "gets himself cleared of all charges, all in the same day. I win, you win, he wins, we can all get back to our lives and forget this ever happened." He locked eyes her, twirling his lamppost in one hand. "Think carefully, Ranger; I only compromise once."

Valor let out a defiant squawk the moment had finished speaking, and Quinn was, for the first time in her life, relieved that nobody took the eagle's attitude seriously. She spared a glance at Garret, still pale, but at least looking a bit livelier, but for some odd reason he was fumbling with his knee. "You alright there, bud?" Jax turned to him again, apparently having seen the fidgeting from his peripheral view.

"N-Nothing, sir…" Even his voice sounded livelier. "Just… Just pins and needles in my legs, sir."

"Don't worry about it," Jax shrugged. "Take your time – I can keep her at bay as long as I need to," he said reassuringly, before facing Quinn again. "Well, Ranger? What's it gonna be?"

Sheer, sheer willpower prevented her from caving and agreeing, and putting an end to this frustrating mission once and for all. However, her sense of duty won out – Jax was, for all intents and purposes, a mercenary – while he may have been professional, his loyalty was still for sale; so many things could go wrong with Jax's proposal it wasn't even funny. She sighed to herself, dismayed at the horrendous turn a simple track-and-arrest had taken, and steeled her resolve. "While your offer of cooperation is appreciated, Grandmaster," Quinn said evenly, "my orders stand. Garret is a key witness to a crucial case overseen by Demacian law – and I was instructed to bring him back, no matter the cost."

"Damn shame," Jax shook his head, his grip on his lamppost tightening ever so slightly. "Well I've got a dying man to tend to – so let's make this quick, shall we?"

Deathly silence followed, and tensions mounted among the parties involved. Between a glaring eagle, a morose looking ranger, Valoran's greatest weapons master and a poor sod who could never even have _imagined_ being part of a predicament like this, there was a degree of danger in the air. For but a moment, the only sounds were those of a whispering breeze – before part of a stalactite above them broke off, plunging to the floor and shattering with a loud _crack_.

That was the cue.

The forms of the two fighters became blurs and they lunged – one forwards, one backwards, and the cacophonic orchestra of combat filled the empty cavern.

Quinn had opted to put as much distance between her and Jax as possible. Bolts flew from her crossbow at a frantic pace as the purple-clad mercenary charged at her. She lost track of almost everything around her apart from Valor's position – one could not afford to think of anything else when fighting the Grandmaster at Arms, _especially_ not during such a precarious situation.

Valor squawked above her, a cue she recognized as a sign of terrible danger, and she halted her motions and hopped back without a single thought. For a brief moment she felt a different kind of breeze pass in front of her face, and the scent of brass and burning wick filled her nostrils. She blinked, and to her horror Jax had closed the distance between them faster than she could ever have expected him to, and due to Valor's warning she had just avoided getting her block knocked off. It served as a terror-fuelled reminder to Quinn that this was _Jax_ she was fighting – and it wasn't going to be as simple as dodge, shoot and repeat.

Valor dove down towards them in an attempt to get Jax away from Quinn, but the Grandmaster was relentless – Valor's talons raked nothing but thin air. The Grandmaster had easily predicted the eagle's course of flight and, in a testament to his skill in combat, had dodged the aerial assault _and_ continued his vicious assault on the Ranger with one swift movement. The roles had been reversed – now it was Quinn who was on the run, desperately backstepping and hopping around, trying to dodge strikes from an absolutely improbable weapon.

Suddenly it didn't seem so strange that even people like Shyvana were wary of Jax.

She switched to different tactics – she feinted to the right, acting as though she were about to try and leap away. Jax, ever on the uptake, moved to strike, not at her but at the spot she would soon be – she exploited this and ducked into a roll in the other direction. While she lacked the speed and elegance of Shauna Vayne it proved beneficial nonetheless; the Grandmaster had struck miss, and just as Quinn straightened out and aimed at the fighter's back –

She recoiled as a loud _crack_ signalled a punishing blow to the side of her helmet, and spot of white appeared in her vision as she stumbled back blindly, almost tripping over her own feet in the process. A stinging pressure pulsed just above her right temple, and a quick touch to the side of her helmet determined it had been dented beyond use – the bent steel pressed against the side of her head, hindering her thoughts and movements.

Finally coming out of her stumble, she yanked the gold-plated helm off. Her raven hair tumbled down around her face, and a quick touch-and-inspect revealed she now sported a gash along the side of her face. "H-How…" She turned back to face her opponent. The Grandmaster still stood with back towards her, facing the spot the had feinted towards, but his posture showed he didn't need to face her to hurt her – his left hand clutched the lamppost just below the lamp itself, while the right had a hold around the middle. The uprooted end of the post, however, was pointing in her direction, making his attack obvious.

It had been foolish of her to assume he only attacked with the top-end of the post.

"Your move, Ranger," Jax said simply, looking over his shoulder at her. He still hadn't even bothered to turn around. Normally such behaviour from a foe would be infuriating, but right now Quinn couldn't be bothered with getting angry. Anger lead to a loss of control, of inhibition, of _sense_, and against Jax such actions would be nothing more than a death sentence.

Frowning to herself, she made peace with the situation at hand.

Diplomacy was no longer an option.

"Now!" A simple word had relayed an entire battle plan – bravely, Valor folded his wings in again dove towards Jax, his talons arching and seeking blood once more. For a moment it seems almost as though Jax's shoulders sagged a bit, as if he were disappointed with what he saw. Nonetheless, as Quinn herself shot to the side in order to gain a window, Jax himself tensed up – and started his counter attack.

He moved like water, Quinn grudgingly admitted as she kept herself light on her feet. There were no unnecessary movements, no openings for Jax to defend and no errors to hinder his skills. The lamppost twirled again, leaving trails of wispy smoke in the air and in a blink, Valor was on a crash course with the lamp itself. He dove to the side just as Jax had come around full circle, and two bolts from Quinn's crossbow harmlessly clattered off the shaft. The Grandmaster had his eyes on her now, as her eagle was retreating and preparing for another lunge. In a panic she fired more bolts at him, hoping to at least stave off his advance until Valor could dive again – but it was for naught. Her bolts struck either brass or thin air, and at one stage the Grandmaster even caught one in mid-air with his bare hand.

Three quick steps and he was in her face again – her aim was hampered as she desperately ducked and dived, and her heart leapt every time the edge of the lamppost scuffed against her leathers or nicked her shoulder pads. Even those tiny impacts were enough to make her jerk slightly from the sheer force. She grit her teeth again, desperation flashing on her features as she sidestepped, ducked, dodged and rolled in a futile effort to put some distance between her and Jax. Absentmindedly she noticed Valor going for a dive again, just before she ducked low to avoid another punishing shot to the side of the head. In her mad rush she had lost track of her companion, and upon hearing his disappointed cry she reckoned he was someone up above again – more than likely having failed another attack.

She coughed suddenly as the lamppost caught her square in the stomach, and sheer flexibility prevented her from falling over her feet again and keeling over. Once more she took a leap back, ignoring the hollow pain in her stomach, and once more it proved futile – she managed to avoid three attacks before a full-circle flourish from Jax caught her on the knee. She could have sworn she heard something crack, as pain suddenly _blazed _across her leg, but even then she refused to falter. She _had_ to find some way to get away from.

Valor let out another cry, hoping to _at least_ draw the Grandmaster's attention as he came in for another dive – only this time he altered his course. He dove straight down, aiming for the solid stone floor of the altar, and at the last minute spread his wings and pulled up just a bit. The speed from the dive sent the eagle gliding towards the weapons master mere _centimetres_ above the floor. This was his plan, after all – if he could not strike from above, he would strike from below.

Quinn knew of Valor's plan even before she even saw him gliding towards the Grandmaster. It was a tactic they'd used times in the past – risky, yes, but a necessity in this case. If this didn't work, then… She shuddered as the lamppost struck her upper arm, rendering it half numb, and she pirouetted away – she was even beyond hoping now; all that mattered was minimizing the damage.

She got her window of opportunity moment Valor lunged.

The Grandmaster had seeing the eagle coming, true – it would have been insulting to imagine he wouldn't – but blocking or evading a low attack was a lot different from blocking a lower one – and the shift in the fighter's stature was just what she needed. As Jax spun to drive the eagle away, Quinn forewent any pretences of traditional ranged combat; she dashed forwards, firing one or two bolts from her crossbow. Of course they had been parried, knocked away mid-flight, but that had set up her escape plan. In a near-suicidal display Quinn leapt right at Jax, drawing her knees up readying herself to try and take one last attack.

The lamppost collided with the guard on her left arm _just_ as her feet nimbly touched down on Jax's knee, and she let out a hiss as she felt both the guard _and_ the arm break as though they were glass. Pain shot up her arm, focusing itself _right_ between her eyes, but even then she did not falter. Drawing upon what was left of her own strength and stamina, she put as much energy as possible into her legs, ignoring her stinging kneecap and kicking off her opponent's leg. The leap was _more_ than enough, and as she twirled in mid-air she noted with relief that there was more than enough ground between them now.

Her feet slammed down on the runic floors, and a single tile cracked in conjunction with the pain that shot up her knee – but she didn't let this act to her detriment. Despite all her pain, she landed in a readied stance, her crossbow still trained on the Grandmaster. As the final part of their disengagement tactic, Valor rose up and circled around before diving towards Jax one last time, brushing past her in the progress.

And just as it seemed her plan had reached fruition, everything went right to hell.

In a twisted way, neither of them was responsible – Quinn had not taken a single action and Jax had merely followed his instinct. But when Jax had effortlessly sidestepped her Eagle, Quinn saw something – or someone – she had almost forgotten. Garret had somehow made it to his feet; he was starting at the ground, catching his breath and clutching his arm – and Valor was barrelling right towards him.

"Val!"

Her cry did the exact opposite of what she intended it to do. Garret jumped in shock as he looked up, and she could see his amber eyes widen as he saw the giant bird of prey soaring towards him. With a startled cry, the deserter feebly tried to take a step back – and seemingly forgot about the pedestal he was resting against earlier.

Quinn had heard some soldiers talking about seeing traumatic events occur in slow motion. And she had always doubted those stories – until now.

Garret's descent seemed to take forever – his form slowly fell back, on a crash course with the broken bronze sword hovering over the pedestal. All it took was a tap from his shoulder as he twisted to try and right himself, the merest of impacts – and the brittle artefact shattered like glass, shards flying in all directions. The loud crash seemed to echo all across the cavern, not drowning out other sounds as much as it _consumed_ them – it seemed like an all-devouring echo that ran across the entire cavern…

…and in the brief second of silence that followed, Jax and Quinn both realized that something was about to go _horribly_ wrong.

The fading echo left a whisper – a whisper that slowly increased, in volume, in tempo, in ferocity, in _everything_, really; it seeped from between the stalactites, crawled from the small gaps between the runic tiles and rose from the abyssal depths surrounding the altar, until an almost _bestial_ wail reverberated off the stone walls around them. Tiles shook, stone shuddered and even the pillar of light seemed to dim in the face of the abhuman wail that was slowly deafening the two combatants. The shards of the sword that had flown in all directions started to tremble, pattering on the cold floor before levitating ominously, giving off the same crimson glow as the runes Quinn saw in the chapel that lead her here.

The shards started to hum and sizzle then, and finally the wail started dying down – first in ferocity, then in volume, and just before it disappeared entirely, it devolved into a ghostly, whispered giggle.

From the corner of her eye she saw Jax tense up. "Get back, woman!" He yelled to her, leaping back a distance even greater than she had, and just as she turned back to see what had spooked him –

The shards exploded with a mighty, downright otherworldly blast, and a _torrent_ of crimson smoke poured from it, writing and twisting and forming a makeshift typhoon around Garret and the pedestal. The cloud shot forwards, expanding at a rate she had _never_ seen smoke expand at before, and when the cloud slammed into her, her whole vision nearly went white. Absently, through the sudden severe ringing in her ears she could hear the runic tiles under get torn apart by a vicious force, and pain downright _flooded_ her already broken arm – it drenched the limb, burrowing down right to her marrow, leaving a hollow ache to accompany the feeling of nerve endings getting absolutely destroyed by _something_. She felt a strong hand grasp her by her free arm, and with a mighty pull the hue of red disappeared from her vision and she collided against a sturdy form, quickly regaining her footing.

"I told you to get back," she head Jax's voice inches from her ear. "Damn… Just what the fuck is this?"

Quinn willed herself to look, despite how weak she was feeling. Jax had pulled her away from the vortex of red smoke, but it was raging as bad as it was when it had erupted. She saw something then, which made her heart leap right up to her throat – the edge of the hazy vortex was _covered_ in weird blade-like forms, as though the smoke itself had solidified into a physical defence. It moved in tandem with the cyclone, a blanket of blades that kept intruders from whatever it guarded.

Nervously, Quinn took a chance and looked down at her arm. She had expected to see a mangled limb weeping blood onto the stone floors, so when she saw it was still just a simple fracture from Jax's weapon, the relief made her downright weak in the knees. "…Oi, oi! Look ali-Hey! What the…" Jax moved to support her as her body sank to the floor. She ended up sitting on her knees, using her good arm to steady herself on the ground.

It was at that precise moment that a near soul-splitting shriek of pain erupted from the centre of the vortex.

Quinn jumped slightly, the fright making her adrenaline kick in again. Her eyes widened as she remembered – her target was still inside that smoke. "Garret…" She breathed nervously as another scream ripped from her obscured target's throat. The screams he was uttering now… It shook her to her core. It relayed agony that could not described by simple words; a cry for help, for relief, for _peace_, that would not be given. A terrifying thought occurred to her; that mist had merely grazed her arm and she nearly blacked out… and now Garret was covered by it. She imagined the same pain she felt in her arm, spread across her whole body, and almost instinctively her breathing hitched and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. If he was experiencing that… In his current state, no less…

"Fuck this," Jax spoke up, turning around to face her. With one hand he slung his small backpack off, letting it drop to the ground, and with the other hand he held out his trusty lamppost towards her. "Hold this," he said flatly. "I'm going in there."

_You're mad_. The first thought that occurred to Quinn was one of outrage and shock – Grandmaster or no, the amount of pain that smoke caused – the sheer _danger_ it posed – was beyond even her description. And this arrogant idiot thought he could just walk in there like nothing was going to happen? "Like hell you will," she said through gritted teeth. "Do you… Do you have _any_ idea how much that smoke hurts?" she said angrily as she tried hopelessly to climb to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain her leg used as a form of protest. "I don't care how skilled you are – I'm… I'm not letting you –"

"Then good luck stopping me with that knee of yours," Jax shrugged, dropping his lamppost to the floor with a loud clang. "Unlike you I'm actually being sincere when I say I want to help him. So sit tight, Chickadee. I'll be right… back?" He trailed off, turning around to face the maelstrom of crimson smoke behind him. Quinn followed suit, leaning to the side to look past the Grandmaster's wide frame.

The typhoon was shrinking.

And while it was shrinking it had started to writhe even more – the blades of vapour pulsed and shifted and moved erratically as the cylindrical smoke storm rapidly shifted and changed shape, almost compressing itself into a smaller shape. It twisted and turned, pulsated and gyrated like a fluxing focus of magical energy, unstable and deadly, and all the while the maelstrom just kept getting _smaller_.

Eventually all that was left was a small, hovering cloud of vapour – and when that vapour started to disperse, Quinn could do nothing to stop a shocked gasp from escaping her.

Garret was kneeling behind the small pedestal, his head tucked low so his fringe his face from view. His right arm – his _injured_ arm, that had been shredded by buckshot – was extended beside him, parallel to the floor; the sleeve of the leather jacket he had been wearing had been shredded off completely, leaving a blackened, muscular, yet wiry arm exposed to the elements. That was the first cue that things were unnatural now – that, and the fact that the hand tipping the arm had four fingers instead of five. As if to add to the surrealism of the moment, a pulse of crimson light flared in the limb's fingertips, slowly travelling upwards towards the shoulder, and as it moved Quinn swore she could _see_ the pattern of the musculature hidden under the dark skin. Something was seriously wrong here.

Moving slowly, Garret lowered his arm, and twisted it inwards to examine more closely. This exposed the top side of the arm to the two Champions – and Quinn had to fight to repress a shudder. Suddenly she knew where those bronze sword shards went. Several gleaming spikes protruded from random spots on the arm, likely used to plug the wounds made by Yalia's shotgun, and this served only to add to the limbs already macabre appearance. Garret seemed awfully interested in his new limb. He kept staring at it, completely still, unmoving – Quinn couldn't even tell if he was still breathing or not.

"Shit…" Jax spoke up. "Hey, buddy! You still there?"

The question – regardless of its intent – proved to have the wrong effect. Garret shuddered, _violently_ at that, before looking up, and the sight made even Jax take a step back. Quinn grit her teeth as she looked upon Garret's face – or at least, the spot where his face used to be. The red smoke had not receded entirely. It formed a sort of veil across the deserter's face, its hue shifting, darkening and lightening and obscuring every possible facial detail except one – a part of slanted, downright _vicious_ looking, pure white eyes.

Those eyes… It seemed as though they were _hungering_, and that revelation alone made Quinn come to a grim realization:

That… That was _not_ Garret.

Jax had his lamppost ready before Quinn could even blink. "Who the fuck are you?" The Grandmaster demanded.

Garret – or at least, whatever was controlling him – merely tilted its head to the side, as though intrigued by the purple clad mercenary before him. For several moments it held that stance, not moving, not twitching, not even _breathing_ – and then the _thing_ uttered a giggle, a sound that chilled Quinn right to her stomach. Garret's voice was still there, but… There was something new to it, a presence of sorts _clinging_ to every syllable, imitating it with a feminine tongue and making even something as simple as a giggle seem sinister.

"C_**h**_al_**l**_e_**ng**_ers_**ss**_s…"

Quinn shuddered again. _That voice_…

Garret, or whatever possessed him, let off a downright _vicious_ grunt, and with an ominous rumble his form darkened. The red smoke that covered his face returned, rolling off his form in waves and hovering above him, dancing in the air like extensions of his own body. They coiled and shifted, some shrinking, some growing, and before their very eyes, the smoke formed blades – two standard, yet sinister arming swords glowed in the remainders of the crimson mist. Then the swords intensified, in both colour and mass, glowing brightly as a loud crackle signified the blades _solidifying_ themselves, becoming actual, _physical_ weapons.

"That's… Okay, that's new," Jax nodded, almost impressed.

"_**Fi**_i_**i**_iii_**iiii**_iii_**gh**_t…"

With a simple, gurgled command the two blades shot forwards, twirling like buzzsaws in the open cavern air and flying right at the Grandmaster. Jax grunted, half-grudgingly, before flourishing his lamppost, dodging one blade and almost easily knocking the other aside. But Garret's new tenant would not be bested so simply – the first sword moved of its own accord, turning upwards and flying into the air, dispersing into smoke before reforming itself in a barbed spear, while the other blade split into three crooked daggers that seemed to circle the room itself.

The spear was the first to commence an assault – it dove tip-first towards the Grandmaster, and upon colliding with his lamppost, flipped and twisted and twirled and struck in the way a master wield such a weapon would; it was as though an invisible spearman was duelling with Jax, and despite not even _scratching_ the fighter's defence, was doing a pretty damn good job too.

One too many impacts later and the spear, seemingly brittle, cracked like glass and halted its assault. The three daggers darting around the cavern took over the fight, each flying at Jax with the speed and precision of a throwing knife. These were a poor choice of weapons against the Grandmaster, however – Jax had already seen the consistency of the weapons, and with such little mass they proved no challenge; Jax's lamppost outright shattered the small daggers, and when the crimson spear attempted to reinitiate, it too was cloven in half by a well-timed strike from the Grandmaster.

"You'll need to do better than that," Jax said confidently. "Now how 'bout you let the boy go? Else I'll just have to beat you out of him."

"_**Truu**_uu_**u**_u_**ly**_yyy_**y**_…?" Garret's tenant sounded downright _excited_ at the notion.

"Yeah," Jax nodded, "truly."

The spirit controlling Garret let out an ominous chuckle, and clenched its mutated fist before letting out a downright _monstrous_ snarl. The red smoke, which had previously merely rolled off his form, _exploded_ outwards this time, swirling around him and arcing into the air forming a hundred small clouds, if not more. The tenant uttered another ominous chuckle, and every small bubble of smoke started to pulsate and shift, and before either of the heroes could comprehend it the cavern was _filled_ with hovering weapons of varying shapes and sizes: spears, swords and daggers accompanied kukris, shotels, flamberges and halberds. Several bows were fully nocked and drawn, and Quinn could _hear_ the firing hammers of several dozens of firearms cocking backwards.

"…Well, shit," Jax summarized their situation helpfully. Quinn felt her body begin to quiver – paltry quality or not, even Jax could not evade or parry all those weapons if they decided to attack. As for herself… She paled. A broken arm, a fractured knee, and the gods alone knew how many other injuries rendered her mobility basically non-existent. They were sitting ducks – and the entity controlling Garret's body seemed all too willing to exploit that. Slumping back, Quinn shut her eyes, expecting the worst to come – bracing herself for the death sentence.

"_**Diii**_ii_**i**_ii_**iie**_e_**ee**_-_**aaaa**_aaa_**rghh**_!"

Quinn's eyes snapped open as the spirit's command to kill morphed into an inhumane cry of agony and pain. With trembling sight she saw Garret's form twist and shudder where it knelt, and in conjunction several smoke-weapons around him trembled and cracked, some even _shattering_ and vaporising on the spot. "_**No**_oo_**oo**_…" She heard the spirit use Garret's voice to plead. "N_**ot**_… _**N**_ot ye_**ee**_e_**t**_… _**Ple**_ee_**aas**_ee, n_**ooo**_o…" It's cries went unheard – Garret's body jerked and shivered, before his now mutated arm reared back and slammed down on the floor. Stone shattered like glass under the fist, and a crater _easily _the size of Quinn's torso appeared under the impact. They felt the tremor all the way under their feet, and even Jax stumbled for a fraction of a second. Smoke-weapons started _exploding_ left and right, reverting to their crimson wisps and fleeing back into Garret's mutated arm, and amidst the chaos, they heard _his_ voice, pure and untainted:

"…get out…"

It started as a whisper, a mumbled plead amidst the cacophony of shattering blades and snapping wood, but gradually it got louder.

"…_get out…!"_

No, it was more than a plead – it was a threat, a _command_, an order of a magnitude that could gather obedience from even the most finicky of soldiers. Interlaced with both ire and a twisted sort of charisma, it was absolute – irrefutable.

"…_Get… __**OUT!**__"_ Garret's voice expanded by several octaves, surpassing the chaos around him to dance across stone walls and vast emptiness. His mutated fist rose again, and with yet another downward slam, more stones and runic shards were sent flying. His free arm – unhindered, unharmed, un_controlled_ – flew towards his face, the fingers sinking into the veil of crimson smoke, and with a wet, _sickening _rip, it tore a good chunk of the mist away. "This is my body…" He said with a raw voice, tired out from screaming and growling. "This… is _my_ body…" His left hand flew to his face again, tearing yet another chunk of the red smog away, and this time Quinn could see an emerald eye narrowed in fury. "You… will not… control me…" Quinn shuddered slightly – there was a determination, a resolution in his voice that reminded her of when he gave her that ultimatum earlier. There was no middle ground now. "I am in control…" She heard him say to himself, a mantra to dissuade whatever madness was pulling at his mind. Again, his left arm ripped a chunk of smoke from his face – by now she could see his teeth, bared in a ferocious snarl, and his mutated fist rose again, twitching and hesitating as though unsure who's command was more absolute. "I am in control…" He said again, his free hand's fingers digging into the stone runes below him so hard Quinn swore they'd crack at any moment.

It was then that the final ounce of resistance fell away.

"This is _my body!_" Garret roared, slamming his demonic fist down a final time like a judge passing the sentence. "You do _as I say!"_

In unison, the remaining crimson weapons shattered with a _deafening_ blast, bits and pieces of blade and hammer and wood and string flying _everywhere_ around him. The black arm pulsed like mad, almost _glowing_ from the activity as cloud after cloud of red smoke seeped back into its muscles. It was as though the darkness itself disappeared in tandem with the misty weapons, as though the pillar of light shining down from the ceiling _intensified_ in tandem with Garret's newfound force of will.

Until nothing but silence reigned.

In the dead stillness that followed Garret's triumph over whatever ailed him, Quinn's heartbeat hammered in her ears. Her target, the man who would gladly have chosen _death_ over apprehension at her hands, had just saved her – and Jax – from a downright _morbid_ fate; and going by the deserter's laboured breathing and vacant stare, Quinn doubted he was even aware of it. With a loud squawk, Valor returned from the shadows and perched himself on her shoulder, nuzzling against her cheek in a display of affection warranted from escaping certain doom. Patting him once, she tried to venture forwards, leaning her weight on her good arm and half-dragging herself, half-crawling towards Garret's location.

She saw Jax take a few tentative steps towards her target. "Hey buddy," he called to Garret, "you good in your head now or what?"

Garret jerked, as if someone had just given him a massive fright, before looking up at Jax. Slowly, the vacancy in his eyes evaporated, and the smallest hint of recognition bloomed in them. His face fell, then – weighed down by the stress and the trauma of what happened, it seemed as though he had aged years in mere seconds. And yet, when he spoke, none of his courteousness seemed injured. "I… I think… I think I pushed it back for now, sir… Thank… you…"

And with those words, consciousness faded from his eyes, and the deserter tumbled to the side, blissfully unconscious. "Well, that coulda gone worse," Jax shrugged as he turned around, facing Quinn. "No thanks to that damn chicken of yours. Cheh. No where's that field kit you were making me play around for? It looks you _both_ need it."

Quinn ignored Jax's jab at the amount of effort his little duel with her took. Smiling to herself, she petted Valor once again, shifting her weight as to sit more comfortably – or at least, as comfortably as a fractured knee would allow her to. "It… It's over there," she sighed, pointing behind her as she felt the adrenaline wear off again, this time for good. Suddenly her injuries decided to voice their disapproval with her reckless decision to face the Grandmaster at Arms, and struck with their combined pain in one giant flood of agony. Quinn, used to such pains by now, merely flinched, swaying on the spot. Darkness was fading in and out of her vision already.

"Oh no," Jax said apprehensively, seeing in her body language what was about to happen. "Fuck. That. Him I can handle, but I am _not _carrying _two_ people – and a damn chicken! – out of this hellhole. Forget it."

Quinn merely chuckled dazedly, smiling to herself. "Sorry Jax…" she said wearily. "But I think it's quite fair… That I make you work hard… after you made _us_ work… so hard…" She tumbled to the side as well, thankfully landing on her uninjured arm, and Valor hopped to the floor, considerate enough not to land on her broken arm. "What kind of Champ… would leave a damsel in distress… huh?" Upon seeing Jax stiffen slightly at the question, she allowed herself a last chuckle. "Exactly…" she sighed as she, too, lost consciousness.

The Grandmaster at Arms, now alone with his thoughts, let his shoulders droop. First he turned back to look at the unconscious form of the deserter he had saved from Quinn, and who had saved him in turn. Then he turned back to face Quinn, who was unconscious for being _stupid_ enough to actually try to fight him without Summoner magic holding him down. He frowned – all in all, he felt entitled to leave her sorry ass there. It's not like he killed her, after all, and she had that damn chicken to peck her awake if she was going to use her injuries as an excuse to be lazy.

Then again, he _was_ on his way to Vessaria Kolminye of all people… It wasn't as though she scared him – come on, he was The Champ. Even Nocturne couldn't scare him and Nocturne _embodied_ fear. No, the case was simply that Kolminye, well-meaning as she was, was a stone-assed stubborn bitch. The woman could rant for hours on end, and Jax, despite being The Champ, had simply no way to shut her up.

He was already in deep shit for what he had done in the Freljord. Taking his sweet time would leave him in even deeper shit, and if Kolminye found out he left a League champion injured and untreated, then… Oh boy. That would be one shitting-on that The Champ wouldn't be able to ignore even if he tried.

In the dead silence of the ancient cave, the sound of a palm slapping against a steel facemask echoed off the walls and across the bottomless chasms.

"…Fuck's sakes… This woman is gonna have _so _much debt to pay when this is over, I swear – just watch me…"

* * *

><p>Thus, the great Grandmaster at Arms found himself sitting sourly at a campfire several hours later. The sun was just beginning to set behind the horizon and the sky was painted a dark miasma of purple, black and orange, with several clouds retreating wherever the wind took them. He huffed to himself, seated on a stump he'd set camp at. Being the Grandmaster that he was, he had little need for a tent – a night under the open stars was the best kind of night, after all. Around him, though, his two patients lay unconscious – one, a Ranger dreaming of something close to her heart, judging by the smile on her features, and the other, a deserter – a criminal, seemingly innocent, who had fled Demacia at a young age.<p>

Jax frowned as Quinn shuddered from the cold yet again, and threw his empty canteen at her chicken when the purple-feathered beast shot him a cold glare. So what if he didn't give _her_ the sleeping bag? She's the one who got him into this mess, so fuck that.

No, his sleeping bag was currently semi-covering the deserter, Garret. Jax has wisely laid him down within lamppost's reach of his little improvised chair. After the debacle in the ruin he figured whatever the hell took control of the youngster must have been concentrated in that evil-looking arm, and The Champ had been proven right numerous times so far – every now and then, the arm's fingers would flex, and slowly the limb would reach upwards and move towards the man's face. It's goal remained unclear – whether to touch, or scratch, or strangle, Jax didn't know, and he didn't take any chances; five times so far the arm had tried to start its shit, and five times so far it had received a stern smack from a bent brass lamppost for its trouble.

The fifth time it had even flipped him the bird. Cheeky.

Nonetheless, he kept at his vigil with the same professionalism he used during assignments or jobs. The change in circumstance had forced his hand, and he had notified Kolminye that he had two injured wards – a Champion fighting in Demacia's name, and an innocent man ailed by a dark, malignant spirit. Old Girl Vess had been none too pleased about the matter at first, but agreed to send Summoners to transport them to the Institute when Jax proved he could be every bit as stubborn as she was.

Now he sat; waiting on the Summoners to get up off their lazy asses and actually start doing what they were supposed to. It had been a long day, granted, and Jax had _every_ intention to blow off absolutely _everyone_ back at the Institute in favour of hitting the sack and getting some rest – but until then…

A slight shuffling sound came from under the sleeping bag, and with a groan, Garret the deserter awoke from his rather fitful unconsciousness. He was every bit as pale as he was when he had fainted – close inspection proved his arm, macabre as it was, was fully healed – but his eyes… They seemed sunken, and ringed with dark skin, a sign that the past three hours of sleep did him no good. He was also trembling, for some odd reason that Jax dotted down to stress. "Morning, kiddo," The Champ spoke gruffly. "Sleep well?"

Garret jumped slightly, whipping his head around to get a good look at who was speaking, before leaning forwards and swaying slightly, pressing his palm to his forehead. "Easy there, buster," Jax got up off his stump and strode over to Garret, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder whilst offering him a spare canteen with the other. "Here," he said, "you'll need this after the day you had." The deserter gave him a wary look, but shook his head, smiling and opening his mouth to speak. When nothing but a dry rasp escaped him, Jax patted him on the back. "Drink first, talk later. You look like hammered shit – and it doesn't look like that arm helps matters."

He strode back to his makeshift seat and sat down, watching the deserter down the contents of the canteen as though water was something new and wonderful to him. Offhandedly, he wondered just how long this man had been wandering. He must have stopped by a few places here and there, going by the fact that he merely had some stubble instead of a beard, but still. Poor guy seemed downright _gaunt_ sometimes, and had a wiry, seemingly malnourished build fitting of someone who didn't get much rest or shelter. The canteen ran dry within seconds, and with a soft pop the deserter pulled it from his lips, heaving slightly. "Heh. Why do I get the feeling it's been a long time since you had a drink?"

"Too… Too long, I am afraid to say," the deserter spoke with a scratchy tone. "You… You have my sincerest thanks, sir."

"Whoa, whoa, hold up a minute," Jax said, raising his hands. "First off: Drop the 'sir' nonsense. It's Jax, kiddo – or Grandmaster, if you wanna be a kiss-ass like most folks this side of Valoran. Pheh. Snooty little snobs," he growled. He wasn't thinking about a certain woman from the Laurent family. Honestly, he wasn't. "Anyhow, don't jump up when you look next to you – I brought the Chickadee as well. She blacked out a few moments after you did."

The deserter looked to his side, and upon seeing the Ranger sleeping peacefully, a weight seemed to roll off his shoulders. "That… That is wonderful, si-Uh, Jax. Thank you for tending to her as well."

"Huh," Jax made an impressed noise. "Wonderful, you say? Awfully good-hearted of someone who was about to shoot her a few hours earlier." At the very least, the deserter had the sense to look bashful upon recalling the memory. "What's the deal about that, anyway, er – Chickadee said your name's Garret, right?" When Garret nodded in confirmation, Jax shook his head. "You sure as hell don't look like a Garret."

To his surprise – and relief – Garret merely laughed at the observation. It was a dry, throaty affair, but Jax could hear a bit of merriment in the action. "You… You have no idea how much I hear that. My name drove Father through the roof," he said, looking up at the stars. "Father was a military man, through and through – he tried to breed his sons to follow in his footsteps. When he named me he… he obviously had high hopes for me. He expected Garret, the paragon of justice and righteousness, the tall, imposing soldier who fought for all that was good and proper. And instead…" Garret trailed off. "Well. Instead, he got me. A bookish nerd far more interested in philosophy than war."

Jax chuckled at this. "Yet you're talking about him as though he meant the world to you," he remarked.

"Oh he did," Garret nodded. "My father and my brothers – they meant everything to me. I loved them dearly."

Jax did not miss the past tense Garret used to describe his family, and right then and there the Grandmaster had Garret's motive for desertion dotted down. It was at that moment that Garret's arm chose to act up again. It moved of its own accord, drawing a startled yelp from the man it was attached to, and once again, it tried to reach for its owner's face –

- and once again, it received a blow from a brass lamppost as reward for its troubles.

"That damn thing is turning out to be more of a nuisance than ever," Jax remarked loudly, and it seemed as though the arm _glowed_ in response.

"You… You have no idea," Garret groaned, palming his face. "I remember the dreams I had… There… There's something inside this arm, Jax," he said fearfully, "and it will not leave me alone. It lingers in my mind, hiding behind my every thought, whispering to me, flooding my mind with things I'd rather not see… During my sleep, I saw… I saw carnage. Chaos. Combat, most likely, going by all the different weapons I saw. Some I had never even laid eyes on before, and yet, as though by instinct I could recall their names immediately… Their names, their purposes, how to wield them… I… I've never even touched a sword in my life, Jax…" The inherent worry and fear was evident in Garret's voice. "What kind of spirit is this?"

"Well, buddy," Jax started, shrugging ruefully. "I dunno. I didn't even know that damn place was there, and travel that road at _least_ twice a month. However!" he interrupted, just as it seemed a depressed look was about to flicker over Garret's face, "I know some people who do."

And as if on cue, as if _waiting_ for the Grandmaster to signal their role, magic flared to life around the campsite. Blue beams of light crashed down on the jungle floor, as flickers of power swirled and danced around the pillars. Several runic circles flared to life on the soil, and in a panic Garret had shot out of the sleeping bag, his demonic arm aglow and held up to shield him. The hum of magic filled the air, and with a crackle of might the figures materialized, their robes seemingly flowing into existence as they finished their ancient chants.

The Summoners had finally arrived.

"These… These are…" Garret seemed to recognize them, and much to Jax's merriment he seemed completely awestruck.

"It's a good thing you're up, kiddo," Jax said heartily as he rose from his makeshift seat. "These? These are some good friends of mine. They've agreed to take you somewhere safe, to help you and get _your_ side of the story without all the chains and arrows and rampant Chickadees and their stupid chickens. Who knows," he said, raising his arms. "Maybe they can help you with your new friend as well," he said.

Garret, for the first time that day, showed the merest glint of hope in his eyes. "You mean…?"

"Yup," Jax nodded, smugness evident in his voice. "Buckle up, buddy – we're going to the Institute of War."

* * *

><p><strong>Aaaaand Chapter 1 is <em>done<em>! This took ages to write, but I feel it paid off - so far we've at least got a look at the two/'one' OC's this fic is going to be utilizing. I'm however quite nervous about making the story _completely_ OC-centric - as you'll notice I didn't write from Garret's point of view once in this chapter. This isn't to say I'll be having him - and his new tenant - as some kind of 'passive-protagonist' duo; it merely means I do not want to overwhelm the readers with too much nonsense.**

**Now then! Two new characters - one, a kind-hearted, courteous if cynical young scholar who's never even been in a play-fight, let alone a real battle - now accompanied by a malicious (...or is it?) spirit that seems capable of nothing BUT combat and weaponry. Should make for an interesting combo, I hope :)  
><strong>

**Also, on a side note, a very special thanks to the EUW Server's player "Kitten Mittenz" for her stellar help in naming the bounty huntress from early in the fic. You have our sincerest appreciation for your aid :) **

**Now then! All's done and dusted, as an author, I wish to thank you, the readers, for taking the time to read this chapter. I can only hope you enjoyed it - knowledge only the feedback will show.**

**Until next chapter, though - adios, and thanks again for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Pre-Chapter A/N: ****Mandatory exposition chapter, ho! Okay, this chapter's a bit slower in terms of pacing than the last one – it contains a lot of exposition and character material. As such, I've tried my best to make it flow quite nicely and keep it interesting, mostly through a diverse array of P.O.V's – including Garret's :D Worry not though, his is merely for a fraction of the chapter. So, without further ado! **

**Will of Iron, Heart of Gold  
>Chapter 2<br>The Road To Recovery**

The Grandmaster at Arms, in general, did not see himself as a wrathful being. Sure, there were some thresholds that, when crossed, would result in a lamppost to the face, but he was hardly the type of person who would reach for his weapon at the first sign of a glare or a muttered insult behind him. He was The Champ, after all – scrubs who didn't have the guts to walk up to him and say what they wanted to say to his face (and endure the lamppost-to-face application that followed) simply weren't worth his time. Yes, Jax considered himself a man of temperament, of patience, despite the knowledge that, yes, he _was_ The Champ and, as such, the best.

Sadly, that patience wasn't infinite, as he was forced to realize pretty much _every damn time_ he was called in to meet with the High Councillors.

Currently, the fatigued, somewhat irritated Grandmaster found himself standing behind a window looking into a much-too-bright, sterile looking room in the Institute's hospital wing. Before him, two summoners in white robes were aiding Soraka, the Starchild, treat his latest acquaintance for all the various ailments that afflicted him. Jax frowned under his mask as he watched the proceedings. The two Summoners were using their magic to manipulate a set of bronze, runic chains, which were being used to bind Garret's new limb and prevent it from lashing out on its own accord.

A doctor had earlier tried to force an injection into said arm – and the aforementioned summoners were called in when said doctor was carted out of the room with a caved-in skull and several lacerations across his face.

All of this seemed to wear on Garret – for the whole journey back, short as it was, Garret had voiced the same complaints; _something_ was attacking his mind, trying to either break or manipulate him by way of subliminal messages or imagery, or visions or dreams or whatever the hell a spirit _could_ use to drive its host batty. Even now the symptoms of the struggle were evident on his face; his eyes were vacant and erratic, as though looking towards things that weren't there, or _were_, just beyond mortal sight. His breathing had become laboured and what little movements he made spoke of an _unfathomable_ toll on his body. From what Jax could deduce, Garret never had any of that fancy Demacian military training – however he'd survived his injuries and blood loss, it _certainly_ couldn't be chalked up to fitness or toughness.

The black arm writhed again, suddenly, yanking against the bronze chains with such force the loud rattling of iron could be heard even through the glass. One of the summoners stumbled forwards slightly, baring his teeth, but he stood his ground, intensifying his magics and pulling back on the chain.

Jax shook his head again. Whatever the fuck that arm was, it seemed otherworldly – he'd seen those same chains (in greater numbers) effectively bind a Void Beast. For a simple limb to strain against it with such strength…

The door to the bleak room opened, and a nurse stepped in carrying a tray of different medicines and injections. Despite the mask of stoicism, green eyes stared almost pityingly at Garret's weathered, slightly emaciated form, and a huge braid of black hair danced beside her as she stepped forwards. At this point the Grandmaster felt at least _some_ of his annoyance recede – it was always a treat to see Akali in her little nurse getup, and even now, the seriousness of the matter didn't detract from it. Jax shrugged as he let his eyes wander with nary a hint of concern or care for anyone who saw him. And to make matters even better it seemed as though Garret was getting the same amount of eye can-Wait. Wait, wait, _wait_, was he really… Jax frowned under his mask.

Was that kiddo honestly averting his eyes?! Pft. What a damn idiot.

At that moment, someone beside Jax – the source of his constant annoyance and irritation – cleared her throat in a pseudo-threatening manner – as if _anything_ could ever threaten The Champ – and shot him a withering glare.

"You know what?" Jax snapped, turning to face his accomplice casually. "My opinion on the matter? If she didn't want people to look she'd adhere to the dress code. If she's flaunting it I'm gonna eat it up, Vess – you might as well cut the glare."

Beside him, the glaring face of Vessaria Kolminye clicked her teeth as she returned her gaze forwards. "Pig," she muttered under her breath, her amber eyes glowing in the light. She was toying with a part of her fringe which hung out from beneath her dark hood, intermixing the single streak of silver with many darker strands.

"What, jealous?" Jax retorted. "I'd leer at you too if you didn't hide everything under those robes. Hell knows it'd make you more bearable, that's for sure."

"As much," Vessaria muttered tiredly, "as the prospect of squabbling with you grants me _untold_ excitement," and here the sarcasm became so obvious even the doctors and Summoners on the other side of the window could see it, "I would appreciate _some_ semblance of seriousness from you at this time, Grandmaster." She gazed curiously at Garret's now bedridden form, eyes scanning the black arm for any trace of misbehaviour. "You say that occurred after he shattered a relic? Remnants of ancient sword, according to your report?"

"Sure as hell looked like one," Jax shrugged, leaning against the wall beside the window. "If it was really a weapon instead of some kind of ritual piece, it'd be a piss poor one, I promise you," he said. "I mean sure, bronze has its uses, but making an actual weapon of it? Stupid, really. There's a reason iron and steel are better materials." He seemed to frown under his mask. "I'm a bit confused though - I've never seen bronze, or any material for that matter, shatter like that. It's unnatural."

"Preliminary tests show that your little weapon might be embedded in his arm," Vessaria spoke softly. "It doesn't look like bronze, but from what our people have deduced from the bit of scrapings we could take, it contains enough amounts of copper and tin to pass as it," she shook her head. "Suffice it to say, whatever that weapon was, it was _really_ old – just as old as the spirit, I'd wager." She turned to face Jax. "You said it spoke with you and the Ranger? It apparently used the young man's body as some sort of medium?"

"Less of a 'medium' and more of a complete hijacking," Jax said, gazing back through the window. "When that thing took over… There wasn't a single trace of that kid left." He paused. "It's a lot like you when I'm mentioned. Boom – new personality, new everything, right there and then."

"And the few words it spoke are meaningless…" Vessaria muttered morosely, ignoring the jab. "One of the Summoners has even gone as far as to say its words weren't even malicious… It seemed to think of you as opponents," she said icily, "and given your reports of it forging weapons from smoke… I dare say that Summoner wasn't too far off."

"I don't care what it thinks," Jax said with another shrug. "I don't care what it wants or what it feels like or even what the fuck it is. I know that thing is trying to push the kid aside, and take control, and let's just say I'm in a good enough state of mind to not let that happen." He faced her again, and Vessaria could read a modicum of seriousness in his body despite his casual stance. "When are you making contact?"

"As soon as Soraka gives us the all-clear," Vessaria replied, intrigued. "The man was a fugitive on the run for more than a decade, Jax – his health has taken a serious decline over those years. His body is currently a cess pool of ailments – the list of things the Starchild has to contend with now is rather large. It will be a while before we manage to make any attempts to contact it. As it stands now we've got a team of suppressors ready to at least isolate the being's communication."

"Then where the hell are they?" Jax bristled. "Look at his damn face, Vess – the guy's a _mess_, and every moment you let that thing talk to him-"

"Is another moment that he's got enough on his mind to stay _awake_," Vessaria cut him off sharply, "and thus _cooperative_. Make no mistake, Jax, my heart bleeds for him as much as yours does, but if he cuts out _now_ then the entire process is going to take longer than necessary. Garret needs to be awake to aid Soraka, to tell her exactly what he's done during his years on the run – broken bones, sicknesses, viruses, diseases, wounds – Soraka can only heal so many of them without knowledge, and if Garret's asleep that means she won't _have_ that knowledge," she said, her gaze becoming somewhat regretful. "Make no mistake, Jax, as soon as he's healed up we're going to let him sleep as long as he wants to. After everything he's gone through… He deserves that much."

Jax remained silent for several moments. Under his helm, his eyes scanned that black arm, taking note of the jagged shards decorating it. As though it _felt_ his gaze, it pulsed again, a wave of red travelling upwards under the skin. He felt his eyes narrow when it struggled against the chains again – with less force but equal persistence. "How do you plan to do it?" He asked simply.

"Well, after communication has been established our first plan is to have the Judicator try to interact with it," the High Councillor responded with a weary sigh. "With her… somewhat unique talents, she should at least be able to determine whether the entity is demonic or not. Going by what she relays to us, we'll formulate a plan from there." Despite how fatigued she sounded, there was resolution in her voice – and Jax couldn't blame her, really. In the past, Kayle had been instrumental in solving certain problems. If Jax knew her well enough, he figured Vessaria had enough faith in Kayle to actually pull this off.

"Well she's stubborn as shit, so she's got that going for her," Jax conceded, choosing not to nitpick or play around any further. The sun was already starting to creep out over the horizon, and still, Vessaria had not slept a wink since the day before. Granted, neither did he, but hey – he was The Champ. A little fatigue wasn't gonna get him down. "Anyways, I'll be at the bar after I wake up. Do me a favour and keep me informed about his condition, will ya? From what I've heard about that kid," he said as he strode away, "he's not exactly in a good spot. Hasn't been, in a long time."

"I will do so," Vessaria spoke with a nod, not even gazing at Jax's retreating form. "Although," she spoke, with the slightest hint of authority to her tone, "do not think this means I've forgotten about your hijinks in Rakelstake." The silence became tense, and in her years of dealing with the Grandmaster and his wiles she didn't need to see him to know he had stiffened slightly. "We still need to discuss repair bills and damages, after all…"

For a moment, a brief, _brief_ moment, The Champ considered turning around and arguing the point. After all, that shit was as much on Gragas and Tryndamere's heads as it was on his! Sadly, though, his arguments died in his throat when he saw her absently rub at one of her eyes, stifling a yawn. Shrugging and sighing dejectedly, the Grandmaster turned around and strode away, choosing not to bicker at such a poor time.

"Eh, fuck it. Not like I can't afford it anyway. Those two are footing the payment, though, make no damn mistake…"

* * *

><p>She had seen poor health before. As part of her role in life, as part of her very <em>nature<em>, helping the sick and injured had been a large priority for her. Even back in Ionia, when she was away from the Institute and all its machinations, she would be called upon to help ease someone's suffering, and be it a grievous wound or a silly cough, she had complied without a hint of hesitation, without thought of recompense or gain. Such was the purity, the sheer kindness in her heart.

The cruelty of one would not blind her to the suffering of many. It was a mantra she had adopted, a singular phrase to keep her going towards her goal.

And yet, looking down at the bed, and seeing this young man so withered and weighed down, so _pained_ and _agonised_ – despite the multitude of crimes the Demacian Summoners informed her that the man was accused of, she could not help but feel pity for him. What she had healed already beggared belief – already she had re-mended several bones that had healed irregularly over the course of his life, and dispelled most of the minor illnesses that plagued him. But still, it felt insubstantial – the one thing that was ailing him the most was something she could do nothing about.

Nonetheless, Soraka sighed heavily before diligently continuing her work. Thus far she had been busy seeing what she could do regarding the numerous amounts of scar tissue found all over the patient's body. The majority of it seemed to be around his ribs, and on his back, which was currently inaccessible. While he had greatly calloused fingers and palms, that was where it remained – there was no scarring or bruising around his knuckles, so going out on a limb Soraka guessed he didn't use his fists much, and going by the scars predominating his back she could deduce this man, Garret, was more prone to flee than to fight.

And yet, the Grandmaster had brought him here – to the place that _moderated_ conflict, and used gladiatorial battles in magical arenas to solve it.

She realized she was frowning, and exhaled softly in relief when she realized Garret had spaced out again. The man seemed courteous to the point of docility – even going as far as to apologize to her, Akali and all the other people involved for keeping them up so late. The last thing she wanted was to create the illusion that something was seriously wrong. Granted, that tainted arm _was_ something that could count as seriously wrong – but going by Garret's constant mutters of defiance, she suspected he knew that all too well. She went to work mending the scar tissue from what seemed to be a knife wound in his bicep, her magics doing their part as they emitted an eerie yet earthly glow. Akali stood by her side, diligent and stoic as ever, despite the change in apparel.

Garret gasped suddenly, and erupted into a violent coughing fit. By instinct Soraka helped him into a sitting position as he covered his mouth with his fist, trying to keep as much of it contained as possible. Still, it had been a very nasty fit, and by the time he was finished, the man seemed even more out of breath than he was when he was booked in – a feat that Soraka had, until now, considered improbable. Nonetheless, some of the haziness in Garret's eyes dispelled and he blinked wearily, awkwardly scratching at his face with his free hand. "That…" he rasped, his throat seemingly dried out from the coughing fit. "…Unexpected."

Soraka smiled despite herself. "It always is," she said as she eased him back down onto the bed. "I'd ask how you feel, but given the circumstances…" She trailed off, checking him over for any other injuries. "I've tended to most of your ailments. The scarring on your back is inaccessible, however."

"Don't," Garret started, before clearing his throat. "Please, don't worry yourself about those, ma'am," he said, somewhat weakly, although his voice had lost the quiver that plagued it when he was admitted. "Some scars won't make my life unbearable…"

"Regardless," she hummed, quickly working at healing a bruise on one of his pectorals. "I must say I'm surprised, Garret. Your injuries and sicknesses… It's difficult to believe you lasted thirteen years in this state."

"Thirteen years," Garret repeated, disbelief evident in his voice. "I… I swear, it certainly didn't feel that long, ma'am…" He mused as he examined the chains locked around his twisted new limb, idly fidgeting with the three somewhat intricate locks dotting the links. "Then again… I can't even recall most of what happened… It has all been one, giant amalgam of chaos and secrecy…" He trailed off. "I cannot even remember if I had a set route to follow… Everything just… fell apart, no matter how diligently I planned…"

"Well, at the very least you can stop worrying about that now, Garret," Soraka said softly as she moved on to yet another bruise. "The Institute houses a number of people with much, much more questionable motives than simple desertion. If nothing else, there'll be no active persecution here – at least for a while," she said with a smile. "I'd say you deserve a bit of rest after more than a decade on the run."

"Sometimes I wonder if I do…" Garret mused softly, gazing at the overhead lights. "A few months ago I would have heartily agreed, laughed, even, at the concept of an ounce of freedom. But now…" He said softly, "Now I cannot be certain…"

Soraka did not miss the sorrow and regret lingering in his voice. "Are you referring to the murder charge against you?"

Garret seemed to abstain from responding at first. He merely lay there, staring at the light above him. The Starchild could see deep contemplation in those emerald eyes, a hesitation etched into his gaunt faced as he weighed his option. Finally, with a simple spark of acceptance, he closed his eyes and nodded. "It… It is my fault," he said morosely. "I… I am the reason that man is dead."

Soraka blinked, somewhat shocked at the pseudo-confession. While startled, though, she did not bother wondering why he chose to speak of the event now. Often guilt could be as effective an interrogator as any guard or ranger, and by the look of it Garret had been left to his own guilt long enough to come to regret his actions. Cautiously, she looked toward Akali, seeking some sign as to how she should proceed. The kunoichi turned her gaze to the window behind Soraka, where they both knew High Councillor Kolminye stood, watch. She held her gaze for but a second, before locking eyes with Soraka ever-so-briefly, and nodding slightly.

Soraka took this as her cue, not once stopping her work. "What do you mean, Garret?" She asked softly. "What happened?"

"I… I am still not sure," Garret sighed. "I… I was in Bilgewater, hiding out at one of my associates' place. I was sitting in a tavern one night, I recall. I do not know if it was through foolishness or carelessness that I went to such a public place, but… I recall my mind was heavy that night. I… I received news that had… upset me considerably. Someone I had grown to trust, and to consider a friend, had been killed," he said. At that precise moment Soraka saw hurt in the young man's eyes – the pain of loss floated in those emerald orbs. "I… I went to the restroom, at one stage – I planned for it to be my final stop before recalling for the evening. Someone… Someone followed me. At first I thought nothing of it – I was drunk and reckless, I barely paid him any mind. Next…" He trailed off, and swallowed loudly. "Next thing I know the man has a sword in his hand. He… He told me to surrender, to return to Demacia with him, to face trial and sentencing. It all happened so fast, I could barely function until the blade was pointed at my throat."

Soraka glanced at Akali again. The young kunoichi was doing an admirable job at hiding her actions; to anyone else – especially a young, tired lad like Garret – it would seem as if she were merely dotting down notes in his medical folder. Soraka herself knew, though – Akali was dotting down Garret's tale word by intricate word. She suspected that, if it were possible to recreate an accent on black and white, Akali would have that dotted down too. "Garret… If this is becoming too much for you…" Soraka started, only to have Garret shake his head adamantly.

"No… No, I… This has been left in the dark long enough," Garret sighed. "I'm here now, safe, but whether I like it or not my charges are going to be overseen and a consensus will be reached, regardless. I… am tired of running, of hiding and hoping for something I will likely never receive. I… I nearly died in that cave… And yet, someone saw fit to save me… despite knowing who I was and… and what I was accused of…" Garret trailed off again. "No… No, I'll not disrespect the Grandmaster by continuing to run and hide…"

"That… is admirable, Garret," Soraka said with a soft, kind smile as she watched the emotions flicker through his eyes. "What happened then?"

Garret blinked, and shook his head, as if to clear it. "Luck happened," he said softly. "A drunken wench stumbled into the men's room and caught the Demacian off-guard. He… He lowered his weapon, trying to hide it from her, and I took that chance to bolt." He sighed, as though speaking of the dark night somehow raised a weight of his chest. "The bloke gave chase, though – shoved the poor woman aside and chased after me, hiding his sword under his fancy coat as he went. I…" He gulped. "I was drunk, and tired, and running a fever – I knew he'd catch up to me somehow, so… I improvised. As soon as I got back to the main tavern I picked up an empty bottle and chucked it into the crowd. I… I heard it shatter against someone's face, and I recall several people firing angry glares in my direction," he said, a slight waver returning to his voice. "Instead of a drunkard looking for a fight, they saw an angry man with a sword. Such a sight in a bar full of pirates and thieves…" He closed his eyes, as if envisioning the sight before him once more. "A… A bar fight broke out, and I slipped out under cover of chaos. I ran back to my hideout, gathered my things and said my farewells, and… and just before I left Bilgewater I heard the man had been killed in the fight."

He paused then, raising his free hand to cover his eyes, and as he closed them Soraka swore she could see a hint of wetness forming around his eyelids. She placed her hand on his arm, in a bid to offer some form of comfort, of sympathy. "What worries me most," he continued, bitterness evident in his voice, "…was the fact that I couldn't even give a damn. A few years ago, this… this would have affected me in a much different way. But now…" He shook his head glumly. "I don't feel anything. No guilt, no trepidation, nothing. The only thing I cared about – then and now, even – was putting as much distance between myself and that man as possible. The six feet of dirt and soil was just another number to add to the total."

For a moment longer, his gaze lingered on the sterile wall in front of him. There was something in his eyes, some form of contemplation, of reasoning, that Soraka didn't dare guess the roof of. Garret, thus far, was a strange man. She had gained a modicum of understanding regarding him – men whose inhibitions had been dampened by pain and fatigue and fear rarely saw need to tell lies, and this deserter was no different. Garret, from what Soraka could deduce, wasn't much of a fighter. His strength laid in his mind, and how he used it to avoid and escape conflict. Had she not known any better she would call him a pacifist, but… Thus far it seemed he was as dangerous as any wolf when cornered, abhorrence of violence or none.

"That's why I wonder…" Garret mused morosely, his eyes still plastered to the wall. "I likely caused a family to lose a husband and a father… and I still can't care. There's regret, yes – I know the man was… was only trying to do his job. I'll always regret that he had to lose his life so I could keep my own, but… The fact that I feel no _guilt_, no _weight_ on my conscience…" He trailed off with a sigh. "That scares me."

Soraka blinked. That… was not the kind of consensus one reached simply by reciting a life story. All the consideration, and hesitation she had seen in his eyes made sense now – the Starchild wagered Garret had been thinking about this for a _long_ while now.

"What caused you to think about this?" She asked softly, returning to tending his wounds and dispelling his sickness.

"I… This… This _thing_," Garret growled, finally tearing his sight off the blank wall to level a glare at his now twisted arm. "Ever since it's started talking to me, _whispering_ to me… It's been filling my head with thoughts I'd rather not entertain. But yet… I can't help but wonder if that's how I've been thinking all along, and never noticed…" He sighed. "I noticed so little about myself while I was on the run. So many dangers… Bounty hunters, bandits, wildlife, nature itself… When faced with such things… One tends to focus more on keeping your life than actually _living_." He shook his head.

"If… If all these thoughts, all these _violent_ ideas… If they're not because of the arm… If they're my own…" He frowned, his glare tracing the sharp shards protruding from the limb. "I… I do not want to be that kind of being. I swore to myself my circumstances would never change me… That I, that I'd uphold what I was taught as a lad, and stay true to it… But this," he growled again. "I thought… I thought I found salvation in that ruin, when the Grandmaster arrived. But all these thoughts, all these _horrid_ images and ideas… They draw on memories I would rather forget. They make me reconsider."

With a sigh, he turned his gaze back to the blank wall. "I've never been so scared in my life… I've killed before, out of necessity, out of some twisted desire of self-preservation… But these memories… These images…" He shuddered. "If this is what I'm becoming… If this is what this arm is bringing to the fore…" He sighed. "If that's the case… then my sentence cannot come soon enough."

* * *

><p>To say she had witnessed an <em>interesting<em> sight would be an understatement. Of all the possible things to happen when Garret had started his little confession, the _last_ thing Vessaria Kolminye expected to happen was to see the young deserter express such unbridled _fear _and uncertainty. She had thought the emotion to be an age-old accomplice to the deserter, what with thirteen years spent living in circumstances that could make fear _bloom_. And yet… Now, with nobody pursuing him, without any form of danger or threat around him… Now that the man was actually allowed to _think_… It seemed as though that decade's worth of trials had turned him into something he instinctively dreaded – due in no small part to that damned spirit hiding in his arm. For but a moment she hesitated – if the spirit's effects were enough to make him consider life in prison as a _good_ thing, something was seriously wrong.

And with a frown, she realized there was nothing she or the other Summoners could do to help him – at least, not _yet_.

Convincing the Grandmaster that it was too risky to simply sever the arm completely took some doing. Honestly, today was the first day she had seen the Grandmaster actually get _angry_ at her. But it had to be done – the arm itself had to be inspected in full before removal could progress. The dangers were many – and as much as neutrality and equal treatment to all were part of her job, she felt that, at the very least, the poor man didn't deserve to have his life threatened again so soon.

Closing her eyes, she sighed. When Jax had told her he found someone _'interesting'_ who needed help, she wasn't expecting this.

Nonetheless, she thought to herself as she stared down at the bundle of files and dossiers on the table before her. On one hand, the spirit in that arm seemed sentient, and combat capable no less – if they could find some way to harness it, to somehow bind it to Garret's psyche in a way that rendered the poor man in _complete_ control, she might just be able to do something about the charge of desertion against him. If Garret could find some way to oppress the spirit, to make a weapon of it, she could _easily_ have him inducted into the ranks of the Institute's Champions, and thus absolve him of any crimes he had committed.

But then there was the matter of the man's personality. The Champions of the Institute varied greatly, and while Vessaria was not foolish enough to believe all of them were truly heroic at heart, there _were_ some people in their ranks that Garret would find issue with fighting…

She barely even knew him and she already doubted the deserter would do a single thing _any_ Summoner told him to when faced with Annie Hastur.

She sighed to herself as she flipped through one of the dossiers. If all else failed, she thought as she stared at some crumpled notes they had retrieved from his now shredded traveller's coat, they could use his particular talents elsewhere. It seemed as though Garret favoured knowledge over combat prowess, as these scribbles showed. He had obviously learned much during his desertion, despite being a fugitive – one paper had a photo stapled to it, and the image displayed a frost-matted wall somewhere inside a ruin, likely in the Freljord. The page itself was something even she could not fully decipher, but Vessaria was clever enough to know that Garret was busy translating the murals and glyphs shown on the photo. Impressive, considering most Demacians didn't even know Ancient Freljordian languages were a thing.

Offhandedly she wondered just what would happen if the Prodigal Explorer ever met this young man.

Her thoughts were cut short when the door next to her opened, and the Fist of Shadow herself stepped through. Her face was still etched into that same mask of neutrality everyone had come to associate with the ninja. She was curt, professional, to-the-point and rarely dawdled or beat around the bush, a trait Vessaria had come to appreciate when dealing with the Kinkou Order.

"High Councillor," the kunoichi addressed her with all the respect she'd come to associate with her title. The young ninja-nurse handed her the small medical dossier she had been writing in while tending to Garret's health. "A full confession, word for word, with the Starchild and two Senior Summoners as witnesses."

"My thanks, Fist of Shadow," Vessaria nodded to her, taking the small file and adding it to the pile before her. "And once more, my sincerest apologies for startling you so late."

"While here, we are bound to the Institute and its leaders," Akali said, not even an inflection of emotion in her voice. "You needn't apologize, High Councillor. I merely fulfilled my duty – nothing more, nothing less." As curtly as she arrived, she made a slight bow and turned to walk away. To any normal person the young woman would seem like just another attractive nurse walking down the hallway – but Vessaria knew better. Her time as a High Councillor has wizened her to many things – and while she might not have seen so back then, it was clear as day now: In Akali's body language – her stance, her gait, her face, and her posture – one could easily deduce this woman was a trained assassin of the highest order of danger. Brutal indoctrination and rigorous discipline had forged her into the deadliest killing tool.

And yet, despite it all, Akali's straight-sighted black-and-white view regarding the world was something Vessaria had found useful numerous times in the past. "Akali," the Councillor called after the retreating ninja, prompting the young woman to stop in her tracks. Her head did 'turn' so much as it twitched towards the High Councillor, a sign that Vessaria had her attention for a moment or two. "What is your opinion, I wonder? You heard him speak. You saw his eyes, and heard the emotions in his voice. Is he guilty?"

"I do not see how that matters," Akali said flatly. "My loyalty lies with Ionia and the Institute – the deserter's charges and sins are Demacia's business, and as such, none of mine." And with those words, the ninja resumed her stride, walking away at a pace that betrayed neither her intentions nor her opinions.

Vessaria nodded to herself as soon as Akali disappeared from sight. While she could not procure an opinion from the Fist of Shadow, the curt, business-like reply had set her mind at ease somewhat. The Kinkou were, in their loyalty to Ionia, loyal to the Institute as well – and with Akali's mindset to 'do what must be done', Vessaria figured the ninja would at least have warned her had Garret posed a threat. She turned her gaze back to the window – it seemed the Starchild was animatedly discussing something with the deserter, and Garret, for all his fear and mental strain, was smiling just a bit.

Nodding again, Vessaria gathered the bundle of files into her arms. While it did not seem as though Garret was a dangerous individual, that arm of his was another matter entirely. If it was malicious enough to attack two of the Institute's Champions on sight, and flood its host's mind with imagery that _terrified_ the poor soul, they were looking at something really serious. Regardless, she had the final piece of what she required – Garret's confession was last on the long list of things she'd need to present to the Demacians the following day. While she wasn't foolish enough to believe he'd be pardoned completely, she was well aware that House Lightshield was not composed of tyrants – nor was House Crownguard, for that matter. If nothing else, getting the necessary evidence into Prince Lightshield's hands should at least ease the tensions.

It clicked to her then that she still had to compile everything – handing the Demacians a scribbled confession on a hospital form was hardly going to be appropriate. She had letters to write, case files to put together, appeals to make and _gods above_ the sun was already pouring through the windows. This marked one of the many times Vessaria had been thankful to be alone – with a heavy sigh and drooping shoulders, actions sharply contrasting her professional Councillor image, she turned tail and slunk back to her quarters, wondering just when she'd finally get this whole riot behind her.

Wasn't it _wonderful_ to be a High Councillor?

* * *

><p><em><strong>Several Days Later<strong>_

Quinn sighed softly as she sat in the hospital bed, absentmindedly toying with the seams of the light blanket that covered her lower body. Several days had passed since she had woken up in the hospital wing – yet still, she was confined to this damn room. She shot a haphazard glare at the small, supportive splint wrapped around her arm. Apparently the blow from Jax's lamppost had resulted in one of the worst compound fractures the healers and nurses had seen in months – her arm guard that doubled as Valor's perch was the only reason said limb hadn't flopped forwards ninety degrees after the impact. Of all the ailments she had received in her 'fight' against the Grandmaster at Arms, only the arm and a very, _very_ stubborn ache in the side of her head remained. Without realizing it, she reached up and ran her fingers over the gauze that covered the left side of her head. Grumbling to herself, she toyed with the few loose fabrics.

After the event at the ruins she had a newfound respect for all her comrades who frequently fought against Jax on the Summoner's Rift.

"If you toy with your bandages they'll come loose," a voice called from ahead of her. "If that happens they'll need to be reapplied – which means you'll just stay here longer."

Quinn opened her mouth to speak, but found herself unable to formulate a rational comeback. The splint around her arm had already come loose twice, and one of those two times she ended up undoing the healers' work by re-fracturing her arm again. In the absence of a witty retort, she merely closed her mouth and shot a baleful mock-glare at the earlier speaker.

Armour almost as richly coloured as her own eyes shifted slightly, the sound of steel-on-steel briefly filling the room, and Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV merely smirked at Quinn's ire from where he was seated. "You know as well I do," he said with that confident demeanour he was known for, "that this is only for your own good. We can't have one of our best Rangers out and about if a simple movement will fracture her arm again."

"I didn't – I didn't know the bones were still so weak!" At least this time, Quinn thought, she could formulate a response – however lamely she had said it. In the back of her head the sheer surrealism of it all still gnawed at her – here she sat, a simple Ranger with humble beginnings, speaking to the _Crown Prince of Demacia_ as though they were old friends. Well, _technically_ they could be considered friends – but that hardly changed the surrealism of the moment. "Besides, I don't see why I can't at least be up and about. It's just a broken arm – I've got another one."

Jarvan seemed to ponder her suggestion for but a moment before smirking again. He reached for a simple hospital flyer lying next to his helmet on the small table beside him, and with one movement, snatched it up and crumpled it into a ball before raising it to his own eye-level. "Catch," he said simply, and with a simple flick of his wrist the (hard) paper projectile was flying towards Quinn's face at a moderate speed. The Ranger's eyes widened – one more than the other, due to the swelling – and scrambled to catch the small bundle with her free hand.

To her great disappointment it seemed she was still concussed, as the paper missile flew right past her outstretched hand and smacked right into the bandage lining her head, eliciting a soft yelp from her in the process.

Once again, her hand went for the bandaged spot, cradling it gently, and once again she shot a baleful glare at her current visitor. The Prince, predictably, merely chuckled at her reaction, and against her will she found herself laughing along despite the ever-so-subtle ache in her temple. "Fine, fine," she relented, flopping back down onto the bed. For the past two days the Prince had visited her when he had the time – it was rather heartwarming, that he would make time to come and see her in-between the sanctioned matches and political discussions. It used to shock her, _fluster_ her, even, but by now… By now she was used to it. Jarvan cared greatly for his friends and his people both, and he held the drive to protect them by any means necessary. Once again, the surrealism kicked in, and she again pondered just how out of place it would seem that the Prince considered _her_, a simple farmgirl-turned-Ranger, a friend. "I still can't believe that lamppost hit so hard…"

"In the Grandmaster's hands," Jarvan nodded his agreement as he spoke, "even the most comical of weapons can become life-threatening." The Prince reclined in his seat, ignoring the sounds of his armor scuffing the armrests. "I actually wanted to speak to you, Quinn," he said, a look of contemplation in his eyes. "It regards the deserter you were pursuing."

Quinn felt a hint of trepidation as the rather sore topic was approached. Her failure had still left a sour taste in her mouth – granted, Jarvan had claimed that he would have had her recalled _immediately_ if he had known the Grandmaster at Arms would interfere, but it bothered her nonetheless. She was a Ranger, after all – and an Elite one at that. She had survived _countless_ operations that placed deep behind enemy lines, tracked and apprehended assassins and killers who could easily compete with the Institute's champions, and each and every time she and Valor obtained success.

To know that she failed such a simple track-and-catch assignment weighed heavily on her.

"I have been approached," the Prince continued, retaining a casual air despite the seriousness of the topic, "by High Councillor Kolminye. She has been overseeing the Institute's treatment of your former target, and provided me with information regarding him. Most of this information was standard – research notes, theories, diary entries and the like. There were a few… interesting bits of information, though," he digressed, nodding again. "How much were you told about your target, Quinn?"

"Not much," Quinn said hesitantly. "I… I was given a name, a photo and about two sentences concerning his background information. I know he was from a poor area in the city, and that he had no family to speak of." She paused, curiosity blooming in her amber eyes. "Why the sudden interest? Did something change?"

The Prince let out a deep sigh, somehow still regaining the regal, confident air he held regardless of the action. "Much has changed, yes. We received a confession – the deserter's own side of the story – and we've finally affirmed just who he is. Garen recognized his family name, and a few quick inquiries shed a whole new light on the case." He paused for a moment. "It's safe to say the situation is not as clear cut as we thought it was," he finally resumed, removing a small file from under his discarded helmet, and opening it.

"Garret Hillock - the youngest of three siblings. His father, Sergeant Robert Hillock, went on reserve after an injury during our skirmishes against Noxus, before the Institute came to power. Robert Hillock married his childhood sweetheart, a young baker named Jeanette, upon returning from duty, and they started a family – first a pair of twins, Isaiah and Aaron, then Garret five years later. Sadly, Jeanette Hillock passed away shortly after Garret's birth due to pregnancy complications," he said morosely. "Robert was left to raise his three sons alone, a duty which pardoned him from being redrafted for several years. Despite being a humble soldier, he strove to raise his sons with the same sense of honour, duty and justice he had been raised with, despite the loss of his wife." He trailed off here, pausing slightly. "Several domestic reports indicate a sort of unease between Robert and his youngest son, Garret – it seemed the boy didn't have much mind for soldiering. Nonetheless, the small excerpt from the domestic overseer's verdict states that Garret and Robert adored each other despite the hiccups in their relationship."

He turned the page, eyes scanning over the various paragraphs and sentences. "Eighteen years ago, Robert Hillock was formally redrafted into the Demacian military, specifically border patrol, in order to deal with an insurgence of bandits. Hillock's unit was ambushed by the outlaws, and while they were beaten back eventually, Robert Hillock was killed in action during the skirmish. The twins Isaiah and Aaron, age sixteen, and Garret, age eleven, were left orphaned." He paused again, glancing at her to read her expression. Quinn narrowed her eyes, processing the information. So Garret had lost his father at a young age, and never knew his mother, to boot. She frowned slightly – how was that any motivation to leave Demacia?

"You're thinking along the same lines I did," Jarvan interrupted her thoughts, turning his eyes back to the folder. "The tale gets better," he said sarcastically. "Isaiah and Aaron Hillock, age sixteen, appealed to be allowed to raise their younger brother in lieu of sending him to an orphanage. After several exams and interviews, the appeal was granted and they three of them stayed on in their family home. According to the social services the three of them had developed an iron-forged bond after their father's death. In order to provide for themselves, and their brothers, Aaron and Isaiah joined the Demacian military as well – Aaron joined the Rangers and Isaiah was drafted into the Dauntless Vanguard," he paused and looked up. "That was our missing link – Garen recognized Isaiah Hillock's name."

Quinn gulped – she had the slightest feeling that it wasn't a happy recollection on the Captain's part. "Why do I get the feeling I'm in for more tragic tales?" she asked warily, and Jarvan, losing his dignified air for but a moment, nodded sadly.

"I can see why he turned tail," the Prince spoke honestly. "Two years after his conscription into the Vanguard, Isaiah Hillock fell ill with a terminal sickness. His health and mental stability declined rapidly, to the point of first being benched in the reserve and then being discharged from the military entirely. There was nothing the healers could do to stop the ailment – Isaiah Hillock passed away sixteen years ago." Jarvan stopped for a moment. "Garen told me it was one of the more pronounced losses the Vanguard had suffered – Isaiah was apparently everything Garen could hope to have in his ranks, and the young man had formed an almost familial bond with his comrades." He frowned to himself, flipping the pages again. "And it doesn't even end there," he said irritably.

"You're going to tell me that… Uh… What's his name, Aaron?" Quinn inquired, quirking her head with a look of caution in her eyes. "Did he pass away too?"

"Sadly," the Prince nodded, gazing at the file in his hands. "Aaron Hillock was announced Missing In Action after a failed expedition into the Shadow Isles." The bitterness in the Prince's voice was audible, and Quinn suddenly remembered being informed that Jarvan had stood against the notion of such an incursion since its announcement. It was way, way before her time, but the story was quite popular among the Rangers – a squad had been dispatched to scout out the newly named 'Shadow Isles', and contact with them had been lost immediately after they entered the veil of mist that shrouded the ominous islands. A few weeks later the boat the rangers used was recovered – bloody, broken and completely abandoned.

She shuddered slightly – if the older Rangers and captains were to be believed, it was barely a week after this incident when Hecarim, the Shadow of War, started his destructive journey to the Institute of War's front door. "When did this happen?"

"Thirteen years ago," Jarvan said pensively, snapping the folder shut. "Roughly two months before it was reported that Garret Hillock had fled Demacian territory."

_Ah._ Quinn hesitated for a moment as everything fell into place. Suddenly Garret seemed like much more than a simple deserter. Jarvan's report proved that the young man had lost his whole family over the course of five years – with the majority of them perishing while in service to the Demacian military. She frowned to herself, replaying the events of what transpired in the ruin in her mind's eye, and as if she had adopted a new way of seeing, a new way of _thinking_, all of Garret's hostility and fear, all that adamant refusal to return to his city state – it all made sense. "Do you…" She wavered slightly, recalling Garret's words clearly, as though they were the only sound in his mind. "Do you think he blames Demacia?" She asked carefully. "For the loss of his family?"

The Crown Prince stood up, placing the dossier to the side and strolling to the foot of her bed. "I would not blame him," he said softly. "I've already gone over what you reported – I've can almost recall his speech to you word-for-word… But I only know _what_ he said," Jarvan said. "I've come to you out of curiosity – I want to know _how_ he said it."

For a moment, Quinn remained silent. She tried to re-envision the scene from the ruin, at least the parts before Jax had arrived to school her. After all, the deserter's words were of the type that wasn't easily forgotten. "He… I don't know how to describe it," she said blandly, making a face. "I'm a Ranger, not a linguist – I can't… I can't _describe_ these things, I just…" She trailed off, sighing deeply and closing her eyes. "The only obvious thing I could tell is that he _hated_ the idea of coming back here, and… and I'm thinking it wasn't about the charges on his name."

Jarvan raised an eyebrow, intrigued at her observation. "Go on?"

"I mean, if you think about it," Quinn said, shifting herself into a more comfortable sitting position. "Thirteen years this guy is running from every guard, every scouting party we send after him – I'm willing to bet he's even gone to _ridiculous_ lengths to escape sometimes – and not _once_ does he pause, or falter, or waver or anything. And yet," she said, snapping her fingers, "the moment Jax offers to take him to the Institute he's all aboard. No hesitation, no doubt, nothing. It's like he jumped at the chance to face his crimes _outside_ Demacia, so…" Her shoulders drooped. "But I can't even understand that – he was… courteous, when he spoke to me. He even called me 'ma'am'. But… If he's willing to enter a standoff and risk _death_ rather than go back…" She sighed again, flopping back down. "This guy makes my head hurt. More than it already does, that is."

Jarvan merely smiled at her in response, as softly as it could appear on his masculine face, and donned his helmet again. "It would be in your best interests to stop thinking about it, then," he said lightly as he struggled with its clasps. "As I said, we've gotten his side of the story, and when… _whatever_ is hiding in that arm isn't plaguing his mind, he'll be taken to the Reflection Chamber. There we'll finally figure out just what is going on." He turned on his heel, then, and strode towards the door. "Well, this matter is calling for my attention as well. You have my thanks, Quinn – even if you don't think it, you've helped a great deal."

The Ranger watched the Prince move towards the door, frowning at the amount of hesitation she felt. "Jarvan!" She called out, just as his hand found the doorknob. Shoving her hesitation aside, she steeled herself. Even if it was none of her business – she was still a curious person by nature. While she was on the hunt she had afforded herself little time to ponder – but now, she had all the time in the world. Jarvan turned to stare at her, a curious expression on his face, and Quinn cleared her throat before speaking. "What really happened in Bilgewater?" She asked earnestly. "What's his side of the story?"

Jarvan merely smiled at her curiosity, an odd response he seemed to hold reserved purely for her own questions. There was, however, a degree of sorrow in his eyes. "We had an informant stationed there," he began, "to keep an eye on pirate activity coming in and out of the city. More than likely one of his contacts informed him there was a Demacian outlaw in town and he moved to apprehend the person while he had a chance." There was a flicker of something in his eyes, something Quinn didn't recognize, but Jarvan spoke nonetheless. "The informant moved on Garret the moment he saw a chance. Garret, desperate to escape, instigated a bar fight. Our informant… He lost his life in that little brawl."

Quinn averted her eyes. For such a simple track-and-catch, this was easily turning into one of the biggest messes of her career, and it wasn't just because of the violence-obsessed _thing_ that was no hitchhiking in the deserter's arm. How could one simple deserter cause so much confusion, and warrant so much special attention? Her eyes narrowed irritably – could it be because of Jax? Jarvan, easily deducing her train of thought, merely chuckled. "I'll keep you informed," he said with a quaint nod. "For now, focus on resting up. The other Rangers are eager to have you back on your feet."

With those parting words, and a brief wave, the Prince left her room, headed for destinations unknown – destinations that could _stay_ unknown, as far as Quinn was concerned. She'd seen the bureaucracy Garen and Jarvan had to contend with on a daily basis – she'd pick a deep-cover assignment or long term track-and-apprehend over that _any_ day. Still, the curious new directions her failed 'mission' had taken had left her as exhausted as any political business.

An ancient ruin, uncovered by blood, a broken weapon, forged in a material nobody can actually identify due to it being _embedded in a young man's arm_, a rogue Grandmaster, showing signs of morality for the first time since… well, _ever_, and a violence-crazed spirit that can create physical weapons from blood-red smoke – all rolled into one convenient package.

Quinn sighed. Had she been an _ounce_ less professional she'd insist this stuff goes beyond her job description…

* * *

><p>With a mastery of the overall layout of the building spawned through countless hours spent traversing it, she strolled through the hallways of the Institute's hospital wing with a determine gait. What little midday light entered through the half-drawn blinds danced across her pale blue skin, and highlighted the brilliant, warm hue of the dress she had become fond of wearing, and a serene smile played across her lips as she strode. After all, a patient's discharge was often reason enough to smile – and this particular patient had shown a <em>remarkable<em> rate of recovery.

With this in mind, Soraka hummed a somewhat happy tune as she went. Her destination – the room of one Garret Hillock – wasn't far now and, prone to fretting and faffing as she was, she couldn't help but want to do a last check-up, as she did with all her patients. Garret had been in a poor state when Jax had brought him to the Institute, but her own healing abilities, coupled with the magics of the Senior Summoners, had just about eased enough of the young man's ailments to warrant him being up and about.

Granted, the High Council had bound him to some form of magical tracker to keep tabs of his location, but as the young man himself had repeated to several Summoners, it was a small price to pay in exchange for walking about without jumping at his own shadow around every corner.

As the white door loomed ahead, she found herself checking over the files clutched in her arms. His bones had mended near-perfectly, his sicknesses and diseases had been lessened to the degree that simple prescription antibiotics could successfully eliminate the rest of it completely. All that remained was the malnutrition and the slight atrophy in the majority of his muscle mass – but those were things that couldn't be 'healed' in the same vein as a standard injury. Only time would help him recover from those – and as much as it made her waver to think so, the young man would have ample time and opportunity to cure it; whether in the Institute, or in prison.

As much as the thought saddened her, she had to admit it was an all-too-likely scenario.

All she could do at this stage was hope for the best, as she had done with all her previous patients and would do with all her future ones.

She briefly recalled what had happened several days earlier, the early morning that Garret had recited his part of the story to her and Akali. After the Fist of Shadow had left, it took but a mere touch-up and she deemed it safe for the Summoners to suppress whatever had been taking refuge in that dark, sinister-looking arm. It had started out roughly enough to give her pause – the arm had _flared_ to life upon somehow discerning the Summoners' intent, and ever so briefly there was a tint of red to Garret's emerald eyes. He had winced from the pain, and inhaled sharply, seemingly fighting off the influence – but within moments the arm grew docile, as if it had sensed _something_ in Garret's mind that gave it pause. The rest of the suppression had gone off without a hitch, and by the time the little ritual was done, Garret was sporting a rather lavish jewelled chain on his arm, weaved around the shards and forming intricate circles around his wrist and elbow.

She had tried to perform an analysis afterwards – a set of questions she asked anyone who went through some form of magical or spiritual suppression in the Institute, but… She never even got a chance. Garret had blacked out mid-sentence, and upon the seeing the look absolute peace and serenity on that gaunt face, the Starchild just couldn't bring herself to wake him.

He had slept for an astounding _twenty-two hours_ after blacking out, and for but a moment she had feared whether the suppression had made him lapse into some sort of coma.

Yet her fears proved unfounded when she had strolled into his room a day and a half post-suppression, and found him sitting upright in his bed, chatting amiably with a Summoner who had been assigned to monitor the effectiveness of the seal. His pallor no longer resembled that of a corpse, and the pitch-dark rings that had weighed down the flesh under his eyes had receded to a mere shadow. A good night's – or _day's_ – rest had proved a better remedy than any of the Starchild's own magics, and she couldn't help but feel happy for him upon seeing the once downtrodden soul so energetic and peaceful all of a sudden.

And today he was finally getting discharged. Yes, he was still confined to the Institute of War, but still – despite Garret's courteous demeanour and prim-and-proper mindset, even the foggiest of minds could detect the slight excitement at the prospect of a semblance of _freedom_ in Garret's eyes. She recalled the one morning Jax had stopped by, to check up on his new buddy, and the Grandmaster had loudly declared that he and Gragas were dragging the young man to the closest bar they could find the day he was discharged.

Naturally, Soraka herself had tried to intervene and inform the Grandmaster that the young man's health was still not at a hundred percent, but a few quick leers from Jax disguised as questions aimed at Garret had left the Starchild so flustered she couldn't function for a few moments – a few precious moments that Jax had exploited to slip away and avoid her reprimand.

She shook her head. Always the troublemaker, that Jax. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind, she stopped in front of her destination, reached out, knocked twice, and entered.

The first thing she heard upon entering was the very loud _rip_ of fabric tearing beyond mending, and an exasperated sigh of "Oh, gods above…" At first the sound coming from the small bathroom cubicle confused her, and she stepped forwards to get a better look at what was going on. Her eyes settled on an array of discarded shirts on the bed, most of them with their right sleeves completely shredded. Only then she recalled that the shards sticking out of Garret's new arm were actually _sharp_, and chuckled to herself as she pieced the information together. "Hell with it," she heard another mutter from the enclosed cubicle, and yet another muffled _rip_ echoed through the eerily still room.

Just as she wondered what on earth was going on, Garret himself emerged from the cubicle, and Soraka raised a hand to her lips, if only to try and mute the slight chuckle bubbling in her throat. While the (hopefully former) deserter was dressed as commonly and casually as possible, the entire right arm and shoulder had been shredded away. It didn't seem like it was caused by a blade – or shard – either; Soraka's guess was that Garret had tired of struggling and simply tore his shirt to provide for his spiky new appendage.

She took that moment to take in his appearance, now that he didn't look like some shambling husk of a man hobbling along. His clothing was almost banal, consisting of dark pants and a white shirt. However, apparel was something the Starchild wasn't interested in. Instead she focused on the more physical aspects – a quick look at his face showed that he had at least shaved again. Granted, there was still stubble, but it mattered little – it looked more rugged than outright dirty anyway. The long mane of dark hair remained, probably out of habit after so long on the run, but he had at least tried to remove some of the dirt from it. She realized she mistook most of the gauntness in his face – it turned out Garret was a very thin, wiry individual, more lanky than outright muscular or fit, and his face displayed this without error.

All in all, she decided, _not_ the kind of person who she'd expect to make Jax and Quinn wary of danger.

He stopped the moment he saw her, though, and his eyes widened slightly. "Miss… Er… Lady Soraka," he sounded honestly surprised, as though he hadn't expected to see her again so soon. He strode forwards a few steps, a slight smile etched onto his face, and even in the dimmed midday light it was obvious how many wonders some honest rest did for the man. "I was not… I didn't think I would see you again so soon, ma'am," he spoke reservedly. "What with getting discharged and all…"

Soraka smiled at the somewhat timid way Garret was speaking. "I don't easily forget a patient," she said cheerfully. "Call it a habit of mine, but I like doing a final checkup before I send my patients off. If only to reaffirm certainty."

Garret seemed to deflate a bit. "I… I will not need to take my shirt off again, will I?" He asked almost fearfully, an act that stirred yet another chuckle within the Starchild. "Trying to clothe oneself with an arm like this," he said glumly, beckoning towards the offending limb, "is both an exercise in futility and a catalyst for many, _many_ frustrations."

"Hence the shredded sleeve?" She ventured a guess, smiling as she motioned for him to sit down on the small chair set aside. It seemed as though Garret was about to retort, to at least _try_ to explain why he now owned seven shirts lacking a right sleeve, but for some reason he decided against it, chuckling as he abstained from commenting. "You're recovering at a rate that surpasses all our expectations," Soraka mused as Garret took a seat on the small chair. She placed one hand on his forehead and another on his chest, and in the midday light her magics glowed earthen green around him.

"I… I'd rather refrain from questioning it," Garret shrugged, closing his eyes as the magics surrounded him. "At this point I'm not questioning anything anymore. I… I want all of this over and done with as soon as possible. If some irregular recovery helps speed that up… then I will hardly even ponder its meaning."

"You sound like you've done some soul-searching these past few days, Garret," Soraka mused. There was still an irregularity here and there – a missed bruise or two and the like – but other than that he seemed no worse for wear, malnutrition notwithstanding. "Just a few days ago you were talking about freedom."

"In a way… That is still what I desire," Garret nodded, opening his eyes to narrow slits. "But… Ever since I came here… Since I've been able to rest and _think_… I came to realize just how sick and tired I am of running away. I have… I have come to terms with the inevitabilities of the future now. Whether I face absolution or prison… Both will put an end to the fear, and the paranoia, and the constant _running_…" He paused a bit, knitting his fingers together. "That, in a way, is also some kind of freedom. Not the kind I've been pursuing, but… not the kind I'd turn down either."

Soraka looked at him quizzically for a moment, before smiling slightly. "Have hope," she said in that soothing way of hers. "Your trial will be left not to a court or a judge, but to the Summoners of the Institute themselves. _They_ will look into your past, _they_ will find the truth and _they_ will be the driving force behind the verdict. And I can assure you, Garret," she said, placing a hand on the young man's shoulders, "that while they may be… a bit stuffy, at times, they are anything _but_ unfair."

The deserter looked at her, pondering something – it was almost as though she could _see_ the different thoughts in his eyes – before sighing softly, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. "My thanks," he half-muttered, "for the words of encouragement. It makes the prospect of judgement seem much more bearable…" He said with finality, standing up and strolling over to the bed. "I've been told to report to the…" He hesitated, face twisting slightly, as if trying to recall something that eluded his memory. "The Reflection Chamber? I'm to meet with someone called The Judicator there. Do you know this person?"

Soraka chuckled at the deserter's cluelessness. "I know the Judicator, yes. She's involved every time someone new comes to the Institute, be they a Champion, a Summoner or otherwise. She's the closest thing the Institute has to an actual judge – while she's not the one making the verdict, her opinion regarding matters is highly valued. My guess is, she'll be the one overseeing your Reflection," she said casually, keeping her smile up. "But you needn't fear – the Judicator may be narrow-minded at times, but her spite is saved exclusively for her sister."

"I will…" Garret trailed off, sighing a bit. "I will be sure to keep clear of the latter, then," he said with finality. "I don't intend to go stirring up any more hornet's nests. I… Selfish as it may sound of me, I would rather avoid any further conflict or strife – especially not with my hearing coming up."

"When are they expecting you?" Soraka inquired. The Institute had a track record of mysteriousness when it came to Judgements, be it for a Champion or Summoner. Some were kept waiting for weeks, months even, while others were judged on the spot. The Shadow of War, she recalled, had been led to the Reflection Chamber within moments of arriving at the Institute's metaphorical front door. She chanced a peek at Garret's mutated arm again, wondering just how much Summoner attention that fiendish spirit warranted…

"Four hours from now," Garret said, noticing Soraka's gaze and tucking the offending limb behind his back. His face kept that same soft smile, and there was little hurt or anger in his eyes, but the gesture in and of itself said enough – the arm was still a sore subject. "They've decided to try and get everything over and done with today. After my… my 'Reflection', the Judicator will try to make contact with… Well, she'll do her part," he said, somewhat stiffly. "I am… merely worried about one of the aspects of this little Judgement," he said, somewhat warily. Upon seeing Soraka's confused look, he supplied her with an answer. "Prince Lightshield has requested to be present. Captain Crownguard as well."

Soraka's eyes widened slightly as she processed the news. What interest could Garen and Jarvan IV have in this young man? Sure, he _was_ a Demacian, and a convicted criminal at that, but… She frowned. Could this have something to do with Quinn, and her subsequent defeat at Jax's hands? If it were she couldn't fault the Crown Prince – Quinn had been in a truly sorry state when Jax had brought her in, nonchalantly claiming that he 'put her in her place', as an arrogant man like himself was wont to do.

Briefly, she wondered if it could have been because of the spirit in his arm – after all, it _did_ seem combat capable, going by Jax's report. But she shook such concerns from her mind – with a spirit as malevolent as the one in his arm, it seemed more likely Demacia would opt to _destroy_ it rather than –

And at that precise moment, recollection dawned in her mind, and her features saddened as she recalled what they had discovered while the deserter was sleeping. An in-depth analysis of the suppressed limb revealed something equal parts terrifying and tragic: the flesh had been twisted and mutated far deeper than a simple limb. The Summoners had found strands of corrupted muscle and sinew and even bone leading deeper into his torso, and the arm's corruption had secured an unrelenting grip on the young man. The dark flesh had latched onto several important arteries and muscles – including several around his spine and heart. Complete removal of the arm would be dangerous, possibly _fatal_ at that.

She had briefly recalled Garret's reaction to this news. While she could not lay claim to know his entire reaction, she had seen every trace of colour leave his face as he asked to be left alone. It was difficult to discern his emotions then – she could see sorrow and fear in his green eyes, and a slight slump in his body language.

But that was then. Whatever Garret had told himself, or discovered about himself, had eased that negativity – there was no hint of it now in his body language at all. He seemed… relaxed, almost. As though he merely couldn't care anymore.

Soraka made a note to have him called in to speak with some of the Summoners – it was better to be safe rather than sorry, and if Garret was actively repressing his emotions in light of his new limb, it could spell untold amounts of disaster; _especially_ if the spirit had access to them.

"I cannot fathom why they would even care about some lad from the city's poor district," Garret continued, pulling the Starchild from her reverie, "but I won't question it. Mine is not to make demands – I've been given opportunity enough as is. I'm scared, I admit – I'm downright bloody terrified of even being in the same room as the Captain of the Vanguard." Garret gazed out of the window as he spoke, his eyes misting over in remembrance. "Monster of a man, stood almost twice my height and I was a teen at the time."

"Their presence," Soraka spoke, nodding slightly, "is highly unusual. It has been… ages, since another Champion was allowed to be present during the Reflection. However, while unusual, they also hold very little sway," she said resolutely. "The final verdict is still in the hands of the Summoners. Should they draft you into service to the Institute there is little anyone else can do regarding the matter. If your words contain truth, then the Reflection will prove it. At the very least you'll be cleared of the murder charge," she said with a smile. "Have you thought about what you can offer, though? Should the Institute conscript you, that is. You've been running from a soldier's life for more than a decade so I highly doubt you'll be up for fighting in the Fields of Justice."

"I…" Garret trailed off, scratching the back of his head. "I have not truly thought about that, ma'am," he said truthfully. "I've been so focused on what lies ahead, and on fighting off this_ damned_ arm… Other trains of thought eluded me." He paused for a while, deep in thought. "I have been studying linguistics and archaeology. Granted, I'm no prodigy, but I feel I've fared better than most. Is there some place in the Institute that could use such talents?"

"Well, the Prodigal Explorer, Ezreal, often commissions support for his various expeditions, so you might have some luck there as far as the long term is concerned," Soraka answered, also deep in thought. "Although… The notes the Summoners obtained from you show you're quite the bookish sort. If nothing else, your knowledge could be valuable as far as the Institute's library is concerned. I…" She trailed off, pondering something. "The Institute's library is overseen by Nasus, the Curator of the Sands. I can speak with him, if you would like? I'm sure he's got no qualms with extra help – the library is a massive place, after all – too massive for even an Ascended hero of Shurima."

"It… It would be an appreciated gesture," Garret nodded. "I dare not place too much hope in what may happen should circumstance favour me, but… the support is… I don't know what to say, ma'am," he trailed off.

"You needn't say anything," Soraka said with a chuckle. "And you needn't call me 'ma'am' either, Garret. While the Institute is not exactly informal, it's not all prim-and-proper protocol either. Calling me Soraka is just fine," she said with a smile.

"I…" Garret trailed off again, an argument seemingly dying out in his throat, and he shook his head with a smile. "I guess that would be preferable, then. The constant formality must become quite grating after a while," he mused as he turned to the bed again, lifting a dark cloak off his pillow. "Do you… Do you think this will do, to hide my arm?" He asked earnestly. "I do not feel completely comfortable with it yet… The last thing I want is for people to be making vocal observations."

Soraka's gaze softened slightly. Much as he hid it, it seemed Garret still felt some semblance of shame regarding his new limb – even more so after it maimed that one doctor after he was admitted. Granted, Soraka had utmost faith in the Summoners' magics, and she was certain that whatever rested within his arm now would be kept at bay until he decided otherwise, but still… The being had attacked two Champions of the Institute already. "It will do just fine, Garret," she said reassuringly. She knew better than to try and tell him otherwise. The Institute itself had its fair share of Champions with unusual physical traits. Garret himself would not be the first, nor the last, but nonetheless, if he wished to keep his arm hidden, she would pay it no mind. "It appears," she said, suddenly remembering the rest of her work, "that I've allowed myself to wander," she said with a smile. "My little 'last checkup' is all done, Garret – I find no further ailments." She smiled at him, nodding once and turning towards the door. "Much as I'm up for conversation, I'm afraid I have more aid to offer elsewhere, and such, I must be going," she said with a smile, pulling open the door. "I wish you all the best with your Reflection, Garret," she said sincerely, and turned to leave.

"Ma-Er, Soraka!" She heard the young man call out behind her, and curiously she turned back around, eager to hear what could have caused him to call out to her. Garret, for all his progress the past few days, still seemed slightly hesitant – she even heard him start with another 'ma'am' before cutting himself off. After a brief moment of doubt, however, his eyes cleared again, and he smiled, more radiantly than he ever had during his stay at the Institute. "I… Thank you, Soraka," he said with a sigh, slumping slightly. "For the words of encouragement. They… They work wonders for the soul."

Soraka merely smiled back at his declaration, matching his in both intensity and radiance. With her free hand she offered him a wave as she turned back around. She had done and said all she could – and while a part of her still couldn't help but fret over her patient, she realized she had little more to offer him. She heard him turn around as well, and the soft rustle of fabric signalled the large cloak unfurling. Any further sound, however, died out when the door to his room shut with a soft _snap_.

Idly, as she strolled down the hallways to her next patient, she wondered just what would occur in the Reflection Chamber. Garret was a kind young man, courteous, honest and respectful to the very core – but his mind seemed to be a very dark place, dampened by more than a decade's worth of fear and paranoia. A part of her believed that such a kind young man didn't deserve such a harsh life – but she had long since learned that circumstance was a demon that plagued a great many people, regardless of their hearts or minds.

Absentmindedly she wondered if Jax was going to wait at the Reflection Chamber…

…After all, having your mind read like a book was an _arduous_ process…

* * *

><p>"Aye, I hear th' lad's getting his Judgment today?"<p>

"It's not a Judgement. Well, I guess it is but it ain't like our-I mean, er, _your_ Judgements," The Grandmaster at Arms answered smugly as he strolled towards the Reflection Chambers. He never got tired of the exasperation, the confusion, and the downright ridicule his 'Judgement' had drawn from his fellow Champions, and being the individual he was, he never missed the chance to emphasize the fact that he was _such_ a total ace that the doors to the Institute just let him in – no questions asked.

Yup. The Champ was _just that good_.

"Say! If he's, if he's not gettin' Judged an all, then why's he gettin' a Judgement then?" Jax fought the impulse to shake his head. He really did. Gragas, as good a friend as he was, didn't exactly know what 'control' meant as far as his grog was concerned. He blamed that other Freljordian Summoner, really – cute enough lass as she was, she was sorely lacking in judgement – especially when smuggling Gragas new components for his grog. Barely midday, Jax realized with a slight wilt, and Gragas was already inebriated. Well, as inebriated as Gragas could get.

"Because," Jax started, twirling his lamppost in his free hand, "the higher-ups want to get his side of the story. All things considered, Demacia's still short a double agent now, and, well… They're baying for blood."

"Apart from their regular bayin', eh?" Gragas laughed, uncorking the massive cask of grog he carried with him and guzzling down a few gulps. "This the lad ya said ya gonna bring to my bar?"

"The exact same one," Jax nodded sagely. "I figure after, oh, I dunno, _thirteen damn years_ on the run the best way to celebrate his freedom is to get absolutely shit-faced."

"Ya so sure he's gonna get the clear?" Gragas asked, raising an eyebrow. It was odd, the way his whole beard seemed to shift in tandem with his facial expressions. "Last I checked the lad's status was still unde-er… up in the air," he slurred, shifting the cask under his arm. "And there's some mighty troublin' rumours goin' about, bud," he said in a warning tone. "Stories drifiting around me bar, that Prince Whatsit's gonna be sittin' in."

"Yeah, I heard Prince Jawline was gonna be a part of it," Jax shrugged his shoulders. "Not much he can do about it, though. Last I checked he was just your everyday average prince – not a High Councillor."

"An' what about Kayle, then?"

Jax raised a finger, poised to make a witty remark, only to have it die in his throat. "Ah. That bitch," he mused. He had completely forgotten about the Judicator's role in Garret's little 'court case'. The woman was, for all intents and purposes, the sole judge and jury when it would inevitably come to the matter regarding Garret's tenant. She was, after all, the person they were going to send in to make contact with it. "I… Fuck it, I'll be honest, I didn't even think about her," he admitted.

"Might matters difficult, then," Gragas said with a wary look, or at least, as wary a look as a half-inebriated man of his stature could give. "I'll admit the lass has her moments, but other than that she can be a right bitch."

"Noted," Jax said dryly. "Well, shit, this is something new. If that little spirit does anything to make Kayle go Crusader on its ass, it might spell trouble for Garret." It was true, to an extent – while Jax would admit Kayle could be quite kind and fair, she was _stupidly_ narrow minded at times, and many a time Jax could have sworn she was more a mindless slave to 'justice' than an actual enforcer of it. He frowned under his mask. It was also unlikely that Kayle would have much one-on-one time with Garret as well… so her verdict would be based solely on the spirit in his arm.

The spirit that, for the record, had tried to kill Quinn and himself and had maimed a doctor of the Institute.

"Fuck's sakes," Jax sighed. "Thirteen years on the fuckin' run and the kid's still facing shit around every corner."

Finally, he and Gragas appeared before the massive, marble doors leading into the Reflection Chamber. Jax would have liked to muse that he, like most other champions, had either fond or terrible memories of this place. It was the room in which potential combatants for the Institute had their minds explored, and where they deemed either fit or unfit to serve on the Fields of Justice. Jax would have liked to say he felt nostalgic at the sight.

Fortunately he didn't – because he was The Champ and didn't have any need for that fruity 'Judgement' bullshit.

Absentmindedly he lifted the large, decorative vase off the pedestal that flanked the large doorway, and sat down comfortably, setting his lamppost down beside him with a soft _clunk_. Hey, priceless antique or not, if The Champ wanted a place to sit he was getting a place to sit – no further questions asked. Idly, though, he wondered just what was waiting on the young man behind those doors. When he was called to the League he mistook the Reflection Chamber for just another boring, undecorated antechamber or some nonsense because _absolutely nothing happened_. Other Champions, though, begged to differ. Vessaria had told him that some Champions had even been reduced to tears within its confines.

Pft. Pussies.

Nonetheless, the knowledge proved worrying to the Grandmaster – from what he'd seen Garret was willing to face _death_ rather than go anywhere near anything from his past. He had no idea what could have spawned such an irrational fear and loathing of what happened – it was the first time he'd ever seen such a mindset. The Fields of Justice had unwittingly shown him how someone's past could break them – from Riven's stoic, downtrodden outlook to Lux's cheery, unfettered façade, Jax could have claimed to have seen it all – until he happened upon Garret, that is.

"Oy, she's comin'," he heard Gragas speak up suddenly, and as if on cue, he heard the somewhat muted cacophony of shifting armour plates coming down the hall. The lack of heavy, thudding footsteps clued him in to who it was already – after all, The Champ was hardly ignorant – and he barely bothered looking in the newcomer's direction, already seeing the reflections on the walls as the lights danced off her armour. The figure stopped, briefly, upon seeing him, and Jax felt a neutral gaze settle on him. Figures, that she'd be the first to arrive.

"Jax," he heard the Judicator speak, her tone crisp, yet controlled and devoid of intent. "I do not recall this Judgement being any of your business. The Summoners and I have everything under moderation and control – you do realize you are not needed here?"

"Yup," Jax chirped, finally looking towards Kayle's floating form. Ever ready for battle, her golden armour stood polished and primed, and her sword hung within arm's reach in a sheath on her hip. Despite being inside the hallways of one of the most powerful, heavily guarded places in all of Valoran, she still opted to wear a helmet. "You do realize I don't give a damn?" He asked casually, leaning back and – deliberately – nearly kicking over the vase he had removed.

Kayle's eyes narrowed behind her helmet, an action that had not gone unnoticed by Jax, and she curiously tilted her head. "What interest do you have in today's proceedings?" She inquired. "If this is regarding the deserter you brought in-"

"Actually," Jax cut her off, raising a finger and – much to his own ego's delight – silencing the Angel where she stood. Or floated. Whatever. "I'm here to support a buddy of mine. Poor guy's gonna have his mind taken apart like one of the Professor's little contraptions, and after that he's gotta deal with _you_," he said dryly. "I'd think he needs all the support he can get. Look, I even brought him a 'Good Luck' present," he said, patting the cask of grog that had been set down next to him. "This should be just enough to make his time with you more bearable."

Kayle, despite herself, merely uttered a tired sigh, closing her eyes. "There is no need for hostility, Grandmaster," she spoke softly. "I am not here to render judgement. I have merely been conscripted to make contact with whatever resides in the boy's arm. Mine is merely to inform the Summoners of the spirit's intent – the final verdict lies in their hands," she said as she floated past him. The marble doors creaked open, revealing the inky darkness it held. "Although I doubt saying any of this matters – your opinion of me is clearly unshakeable," she said as she disappeared into the shadows of the Reflection Chamber. "I have no intention of trying to change that," her voice rang out as the tips of her white wings disappeared entirely.

A few moments of silence reigned after the angel disappeared and the doors shut behind her, before Gragas chose that moment to speak up. "Well that coulda gone worse," he said helpfully.

"Eh. That woman…" Jax shook his head. Kayle was one of the few people in the Institute he simply could not read – she was unshakeable in her belief, unwavering in her outlook and unfaltering in her advance, but she never gave anything away. Even when faced with her sister she remained stoic and neutral, despite her body language screaming bloody murder at the sight of her arch nemesis. Jax didn't rightly care that the Judicator had shown the capability to be kind in the past. In her eyes, the world was a simple black-and-white place – and that outlook had caused so small amount of trouble for her, and not just with her sister. If she were to let that outlook cloud her while dealing with this ancient spirit, this _obviously_ alien influence…

"Shit," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'm gonna need some of that grog soon."

Suddenly, his day had taken a drastic dive – and if he was right about the Judicator, it seemed that soon, Garret's day would turn sour too.

* * *

><p>He made sure to veer away from the beaten path in his journey to the Reflection Chamber. He had inquired if there was a less populated, less <em>popular<em> path to his destination, for the sake of keeping the attention away from himself. He was but a lad from Demacia's poorer district, after all – a humble upbringing and more than a decade of pseudo-isolation and limited human contact had forged a man who felt drastically out of place amongst large amounts of people. Call it paranoia, call it introversion, call it fear – he himself did not care. He knew what he was comfortable with, and a large amount of company was certainly not such a pleasure. Smaller, more personal companionship was where he felt at home.

With his free, unbound hand, Garret pulled the hood of his cloak down a bit more as he briskly strode past a gaggle of Summoners chatting eagerly about an earlier match. A match of what, he was afraid to ask – these were mages, after all, magic users who held sway over every city state in Valoran. Father had always said magi were dangerous folk – anyone who could manipulate elements and warp reality with their mere thoughts were people who had to be strayed away from. Granted, the magic users proved more of a boon than a threat during his travels, but even then, the stories floated across every bar, every tavern and every trail of caravans he frequented.

The chains around his… around the _thing_ that now inhabited his arm danced under his cloak, their tingling rhythm muffled by the heavy fabric. Once again, he uttered thanks – to both the Summoners and every possible god or deity he had learned of – that his mind had been purged of the dark intentions that plagued it. He recalled, even now, how frightening it was – the whispers that drifted around his thoughts, and the way his vision would often _twist_, and display whoever he was looking at as a mangled, twisted corpse. He remembered how frighteningly _simple_ the wounds were, how the giggles and whispers egged him on to lash out and _end_ those who would do him harm. He recalled it all – and he was absolutely terrified by it.

Again he turned a corner, ignoring everything and everyone around him as he strode onwards. The voice, the whisper, the influence, or _whatever_ it was, it was silent now. He could think, he could speak and move and _relax_ without feeling his own body trying to betray him. He no longer had to fight against movements and impulses that felt so horrifyingly _instinctive_ he could have passed them off as the urge to _breathe_. It had been isolated, from both his body and mind, and despite himself, he harboured a small flicker of hope in himself that, after this ordeal, the thing could be isolated _permanently_. This was _his_ life, _his _body – for thirteen years he had fought tooth and nail for his freedom; he wasn't about to lose it to some murder-crazed ghost.

One last corner, he realized, turning right and keeping his gaze forward. He saw the giant marble doors, right at the end of the hallway – they were as lavish and intricate as the rest of the Institute, adorned with runic carvings and illustrations and floral patterns around the edges. Even to those who did not know it was the Reflection Chamber, it was easy to see the doors led somewhere important. As he neared the doors, though, his focus jumped from the marble itself to the two people sitting before it. "…Jax?" True to form, the Grandmaster sat on one of the pedestals surrounding the door. He looked no different from other days – his purple cloak still stood out like a sore thumb and the multiple sockets on his mask glowed the same azure hue they always did. Jax himself was being accompanied by… a rather _stout_ individual, whose immense girth was decked in odd, tattoo like markings. Garret's eyes widened slightly; even with the three-or-so feet of beard covering it, the man's outrageous belly was still one of his defining features - the lack of any clothing apart from some kind of modernized loincloth, even more so.

Absentmindedly he reminded himself it would be impolite to be horrified at the sight.

The Grandmaster took notice of Garret, seemingly recognizing him despite the cloak, and laughed as he stood up. "'Bout time you got here! Everyone else is here already."

"I…" Garret trailed off, looking at the two people before him. "I took a less conspicuous path. I am… not exactly a people person," he said somewhat timidly. "At least, not where large volumes are concerned. What… Not to sound ungrateful, Jax, but why are you even here?"

Jax merely laughed again. "What do you mean, why am I here? We're waiting on you," he said cheerfully. "It'd be shitty if you had to walk in there on your own. Well, you gotta do it on your own anyway, but it's a figure of speech. I figured I'd come wish you good luck in there," he said, placing a hand on Garret's shoulder. "Also!" He perked up, as if he forgot something. He quickly turned to his accomplice, lightly punching the larger, rounder man on the arm. "This here's Gragas. Good friend of mine, makes a _mean_ grog. You'll see soon enough," he said with a chuckle. "I'm dragging you to his bar as soon as you're done."

Garret glanced at the man named Gragas again. The stout man seemed slightly inebriated, but offered a toothy grin regardless. "So you're the lad whose hide Jax saved," he said heartily, extending his hand. "Good ta meet ya, lad. I hear ya told Quinn off quite good – that takes hair on ya chest, I tell ya, and I respect people with hair on their chest!"

"Metaphorically speaking," Jax added helpfully.

Garret wasted no time, and shook Gragas' hand without hesitation. "It is… good to meet you as well, Gragas," he said sincerely, offering a smile under his hood. So far the rather rotund man seemed like a hearty person – he reminded Garret all too much of one of the bars he frequented in Noxus. He shook his head to clear it of the thoughts. This was not the time for nostalgia. "I assume I am to enter through these doors?"

"Real talky person ya found here, Jax," Gragas commented with a laugh. "He's a Demacian, alright," he said with a grin. "Anyhow, lad, you're right. These doors here," he said, hitting the marble surface with his fist, "will take ya right to the Reflection Chamber. Now when ya go through, ya might see some darkness. Okay, scratch that, you'll see a _lot_ of darkness, really – but just keep going. There's some weird magic in that room – ya can keep walking for hours if ya feel like it."

"Lucky for you, it won't come to that," Jax supplied, "because the Summoners aren't a bunch of dicks. Well at least not _total_ dicks. Ol' Vess is in there, along with two other people I really, really don't care about because Vess looks better than 'em both. You wouldn't say she's nearing forty, that's for damn sure," he said, before clearing his throat. "Anyhow, she's in there and she's spearheading this little judgment. So at the very least you don't need to worry about biased idiots chairing your little court case."

Garret nodded as processed the information. All of a sudden, reality caught up to him with _frightening_ speed and precision. The moment he stepped through those doors, his whole past would be laid bare, for everyone to see. He still was not entirely sure just how comfortable he was with that, but the alternative was much less preferable. He gulped slightly, and took a step forward. "You… You both, have my sincerest thanks – for both the aid and the company before this arduous trial. I cannot be sure, but I waver this would have been a lot more frightening if you two had not been here."

Gragas uttered a loud laugh, setting a giant hand down on Garret's shoulder. "Chin up, lad," he said with a toothy grin. "This'll all go without a hitch, just you wait and see. When all's said and done, mate, we're gonna get you so shit-faced you'll be wakin' up tomorrow night."

Garret smiled at the reassurance, stifling a chuckle at the bearded brewmaster's casual outlook regarding the Reflection. At the very least, he thought, was in the presence of two people who affiliated themselves with him with no ulterior motive. No curiosity, no pity, nothing – just sincere friendship, despite the vast differences between them. He nodded to himself, his smile growing just a touch wider. "I… For the first time in my life, I will admit that sounds like a wonderful idea," he said softly, striding past Jax and Gragas and placing his hands on the marble. "Well… The sooner I get this done, the better," he muttered.

Jax retook his seat on the small pedestal, resting his lamppost on his shoulder. "We'll be waiting, kiddo," he said reassuringly, with a slight nod of his own. "You take your time – we've got no battles for a while yet," he said.

Taking a deep breath, Garret nodded. No pressure, at least not from them. The marble doors were cold beneath his fingertips, colder even than the stony ruins he'd sheltered in during his treks through the Freljord. It was an unnervingly unnatural feeling, the way it seeped into his hands. Even his mutated limb, _deadened_ to all feeling, pulsed slightly under the chill. For but a moment, Garret wondered whether it was an omen of sorts, a foreboding sign of what lay waiting inside.

He shook those thoughts from his head without pause, though – he did not survive thirteen years as an outlaw through superstition, after all.

Exhaling softly, he applied the merest bit of force behind his hands. The dark, intricate doors creaked back, opening before him, and the darkness seemed to seep out from the small crack. Garret closed his eyes, though, and kept pushing. This was all that stood between him and freedom – be it absolution or incarceration, all his strife would _finally_ end – and a bit of shadows weren't going to keep him from reaching that end.

With renewed purpose, he opened the doors completely…

…and without the slightest hesitation, he strode into the shadows.

* * *

><p>The azure glow of the Summoner's crystal painted the small side room an eerie shade – light intermixed with darkness and several Summoners, junior and senior alike, stood in a circle, manipulating the large crystal at their centre. In the confines of this dark room, High Councillor Kolminye had deigned it appropriate to do away with her hood. Garret Hillock's past was about to be revealed to them, and she could afford no obstructions to her view. Idly, she traced a gloved finger down the small, spike-like tattoo that ran down across her right eye, a memento from her youth, when she was rebellious and free-spirited. It had become a habit of hers, a pseudo ritual she partook in whenever she was overly focused or stressed, and given the company she was in now, it was safe to say she was both.<p>

The Judicator herself stood next to Vessaria, her golden helm tucked under one arm. Despite the inherent beauty in her vision, the stoic mask currently settled there detracted from it slightly. It seemed she was on the verge of frowning, as she always was when dealing with such prolonged matters. Her eyes kept a steely gaze on the crystal, the medium which showed them what would happen inside the Reflection Chamber. Slowly, a streak of white appeared in the inky darkness, a sign that the doors were opening, slowly but surely. She stood at rapt attention, her posture straight and flawless, her wings tucked behind her, unmoving.

Off to the side, Vessaria's other two visitors were seated. Jarvan Lightshield IV, crown prince of Demacia, sat on one side, hunched forward, his mouth hidden behind interwoven fingers as he observed the crystal. His crown-like helm hung off the armrest, discarded as soon as the magical relay started, and his gaze was as focused as it was during a battle. Vessaria did not wager a guess as to what the Prince was thinking – after his journey to the Great Barrier, few people truly could.

To the other side sat the person who had provided the final piece of the puzzle. Garen Crowngaurd, Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard, sat with every bit of tenseness his friend, the prince, displayed. Vessaria had done her research – Garen apparently knew Garret's brother at one stage. Undoubtedly, the large man had spoken to the young deserter in the past. It was no surprise, truly, that he too was there. In matters concerning the families of those who perished in service to the Vanguard, Garen rarely let simple procedure and protocol stop him.

She was as curious as they were, though – Garret had been nothing but friendly and polite ever since coming to the Institute, but his motives for abandoning Demacia still remained hidden. It was the one thing nobody could wrestle from the young man, and in a way, she thought it was for the better. Hearing a person's motivation through simple verbal communication… it was a practice that bred neither understanding nor sympathy. But seeing their memories, their _minds_… Knowing what truly laid in their hearts and souls… such was the purest form of truth one could find.

Through the crystal, she saw the doors crack open wider, and she steeled herself, adding her own magics to the ritual.

It was about to start – they could spare no missed information.

* * *

><p>It had become so difficult for him to move. Literally, everything, everywhere he <em>looked<em> was nothing but darkness. It swallowed all colour, all texture, all patterns and objects, and left nothing but a black, horizonless void. He couldn't even see the floor before him – the darkness played with depth perception, and every step he took was made with almost _fearful_ consideration. His right arm ached again, almost straining against the chains that bound it, and frantically, he started pulling at his cloak as he felt the cloth wrap tighter around him.

It all ended, suddenly, when a burst of bright light blinded him with such sharpness and force that he was sent tumbling backwards. His back slammed down on a soft, almost comfortable surface as a wave of cold wind washed over him. The constrictive fibres of his cloak almost washed away, flowing off him and disappearing into the white abyss around him. Sweat caused his shirt to stick to his chest and back, and grudgingly he shuffled to his knees, hand on his face to try and block out the light.

When he opened his eyes again he found himself in an all too familiar place. He was on his knees inside Demacia's Memorial of Honour, a graveyard dedicated to those who perished in service to the city state. Damn grass soaked his knees, as well as the small backpack that laid beside him, but for some reason, he couldn't care. It was nighttime, he realized – a beautiful full moon shone down on the graveyard, dispelling any eeriness or spookiness one would normally associate with a graveyard. It provided the only source of light – mist clung to the rooftops in the distance, and small clouds drifted around the pearl above, but other than that, not a single light was to be seen.

The cold wind assaulted his face again and absently, he raised his right arm – his normal, untainted right arm – to wipe away what little wetness remained in his eyes. Father wouldn't have wanted to see him crying this long after his passing – nor would his brothers, at that. They had lived their lives the way they had wanted, after all… But this would be the last time. This would be the final goodbye.

Unbidden, the memories flooded him. He remembered his father tentatively sitting next to him as he was in the process of devouring a book, and the two had timidly started talking about its contents. Offhanded comments and blunt observations soon turned into excited chatter and raucous laughter, and the memory of the sheer _joy_ he had felt that night tore into his heart like a cold, steel dagger. He remembered his father buying him more books to read in the days that followed, an act that confused him to no end. His father wanted a soldier, did he not? He thought up Garret's name with the idea of naming a soldier. And yet, here he was, indulging in Garret's own definitely-not-soldierly hobby. He remembered cornering his father one night, asking why. Why raise a scholar if he so dearly wanted a soldier? He remembered the answer shook him, reduced him to a bumbling mess that night.

"I care not for what path you take in life," his father spoke to him. "I care that you live free, and happy, the way you wish to. Soldier, scholar or otherwise, Garret – you are my son, and I will love you as such regardless."

The brass objects in his hand chattered against each other as he started trembling before his family's graves. Anew, the tears streaked down his cheeks as he recalled every happy memory. Every kind thought, every fun game, every bedtime story his father and brothers had entertained him with when he was but a lad – they flew through his mind and reduced him to a sobbing wreck once more, and his fingers curled around the objects in his palm.

All the joy in his life, all the positivity, and happiness, and _love_… all ripped away, for another's ideals.

He recalled anguished whispers escaping him that night as he gazed at the three brass medals in his hands. Constant whispers of "I'm sorry" were lost in the dead silence of the graveyard, swallowed up by the spirits resting there. Almost cautiously, he reached out and relinquished his grasp on the medals. He placed one on each grave – his father's and his brothers' – and almost tenderly rearranged the flowers in the vase sitting before his mother's tombstone. It was… the least he could do – both for them, and for himself.

He was going to miss his window if he dawdled any longer, he realized amidst the anguish and the agony. Using his sleeve, he tried to stem the flow of tears as he stood up. He cast a final gaze at the white, marble tombstones before him. His family – this would be the last time, in all likeliness. In a way, he wanted to say a few final words – a final goodbye, a final 'I love you', _anything_ to stem the hurt of leaving them behind – but the knot in his throat was simply too thick.

He was but a teenager, after all – not a man, not a soldier, not a fighter. Just a simple teenager…

He forced himself to turn away. Despite the immense burning sensation he felt right to the depths of his very soul, he forced himself to turn his back on his family's graves and walk away. His window was getting smaller by the second – if he missed it he was doomed to the same fate his father and brothers suffered. It hurt him, doing this – it hurt like nothing else in his entire life had, be it emotional or physical. It was as though he could feel his insides freezing over with every step he took, and yet…

He pushed onwards. He willed himself to. His father had said it himself – "I care that you live free, and happy, the way you wish to." Whether he was misunderstanding or not didn't matter – soon, none of it would matter at all. He had his route planned out, he thought as he dried his eyes again, using his other sleeve to try and clean his face. The guard on duty tonight was overworked, lax – his chance to slip by unnoticed. Slowly he strode forwards, dodging and darting through the dark alleys he had memorized by heart as a young lad. There, in the distance, he saw it – a merchant's caravan, standing outside a tavern. More than likely the owner was getting a quick drink before hitting the long road.

Slowly, with tread he had gained from trying to sneak past his brother, a Demacian Ranger – the best of the best – he crept forwards. Fifty feet became twenty, then ten, then five, and before he knew it, he was right beside the large wagon. He chanced a peek around him – hoping to remain unseen by beggars or night owls or 'lasses of the night' as his father had called them. Yet not a single light apart from the tavern's pierced the darkness – at midnight, Demacia could just as well have been called a dead city.

Nodding to himself, and gulping again to dispel the knot in his throat, he raised the leather canvas and hopped aboard.

The scene dispelled itself soon enough, fading back into a myriad of different shades of dark. Garret stumbled slightly, eyes wet and swollen, and he fought for some semblance of balance. A wave of heat and humidity struck him right in the face, drying his tears, and he felt several lashes of pain across his back. He gnashed his teeth, fighting the impulse to cry out from the sudden sting, and slowly climbed back to his feet. He felt the fibres of his shirt dissipate, and soon that garment washed away into the miasma of colour around him as well.

He found himself, this time, standing in a wide open space in a large tent. He was fumbling with his belt buckle, struggling to fasten it as he slowly paced around the carpet covered floor. The heat was damn near unbearable – even in the middle of the night, Shurima's heat stood as a force of nature, and the fact that he had slept quite fitfully made it even worse. Sweat clung to his bare torso and back, and his hair was matted to the side of his face. He strolled over to a rather large mirror off to the side, wincing slightly from the stinging sensation in his back, and turned to examine the source of the slight pain in the mirror's reflection.

He saw several scratch marks raking across his back. Normally such a sight would trouble him, but given the circumstances, he would grudgingly admit he'd suffered worse during times of brittle peace and comfort. He turned his gaze to the bed at the centre of the large tent, and his eyes ever so briefly traced the form of the tanned, dark haired young woman intertwined between the sheets. Smiling ever so slightly, he turned his attention away. Soft-spoken and patient as the woman was during the day, she was also quite a voracious lover. The marks on his back testified as much.

Eschewing a shirt, he stepped out of the tent. It was somewhat cooler outside, but the breeze was still too warm for his liking. Even in the middle of the night, Shurima was still the hottest place in all of Valoran. He let his gaze wander to the many tents surrounding him – it was this reason that he favoured hiding out amidst the caravans of nomads in Shurima. In their ranks, he was as close to anonymous as he could ever get. He took a step forwards, feeling his feet sink into the sands beneath him, and strode over to the camel he had acquired for his stay, calmly sleeping off to the side. It jolted awake, though, when it heard him approaching – but it was used to his presence. It offered half a bray as Garret neared him, looking at him curiously as the young man sat down beside it, resting his back against the camel's form. "Easy there, boy," Garret placated it, patting its side as he sat. The camel sneezed once and, content that it was merely its rider, tucked its head around and went back to sleep.

Alone with his thoughts again, Garret reclined against his mount. He cast his gaze upwards, at the full moon above, and the reason for his fitful sleep started pestering him again.

Five years.

Five years since he deserted Demacia, since he turned his back on his conscription and fled the city state. Five years since he had become a wanted man. After all, Demacia did not tolerate deserters – not with Noxus always looming on the horizon.

It had felt… much longer. He recalled that night before his family's graves clearly. He wondered if someone was still tending to the flowers before his mother's grave. She had been a beloved friend to many, after all – it was probably too much to hope for, but still… Better some hope than no hope at all. _Something_ had to keep him from his darker thoughts, after all.

It was at that moment that a faint rustling drew his attention. He looked back at the tent he had just exited. The flap fell shut as his partner the previous night strode towards him, one of the blankets wrapped around her body. She smiled slightly as she approached him, barely saying a word as she took a seat beside him. "You were tossing and turning all night," she mused as she rested against him. "I didn't hurt you too bad, did I?" She teased.

Garret uttered a half-hearted chuckle at the question, averting his eyes from any skin the blankets left uncovered. He was, after all, a polite, well-mannered man – just as his father had raised him to be. "I would think after three separate stints that I am used to your… 'quirks'," he said with a light smile as he turned his gaze back to the moon. "No, tonight is something… much different. Ghosts, you could say, of a life past… A life lost, really…"

"A life rejected?" The woman ventured, turning to look at him. "You know," she said, curiosity evident in her velvety voice, "you never did tell me _why_ you left. You're a smart man, aren't you, Garret? I've seen you in action after all. You might not be much of a fighter, but your mind… It's greater than any amount of physical ability. Had you stayed you could have become something great in that city, you know," she mused, resting her head against his shoulder again. "Your support… Who knows? It could have changed the city for the better."

Garret sighed forlornly as he processed the woman's words, his eyes never leaving the pale moon hovering above. "Why," he asked, simply. "Why should I support something that has brought me nothing but pain, and sorrow?" There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, as though he was straining to keep the emotion out of his words. "All my life, my father told me, 'Demacia protects'. He told me it was an ideal that would protect me from harm…" He trailed off. "What happens when the ideal that was supposed to protect me from harm, ends up harming me?" He wondered aloud.

"It sounds like your anger goes deeper than simple loss," the woman spoke up, freeing a slender hand from the confines of the blanket and resting on his arm. "Or am I misunderstanding?"

Garret inhaled – a deep, almost weary sound – before sighing again. "There is nothing to misunderstand. I don't have any underlying motives, or hidden agendas, or reasons within reasons. I… I was set to be conscripted into the military," he said hesitantly. "With my family dead and my sixteenth birthday over and done with, I was just an orphaned rat with bills to pay. I… I would have drafted regardless of what I felt about the matter." He paused for but a moment, resting one of his hands on the slender fingers on his arm.

"That city… That _ideal_…" He spoke, both anger and sorrow evident in his voice. "It took everything from me… I'll be thrice damned before I let it take my life as well."

And as he leaned back against the camel, he felt his surroundings shift again. Blindly, he stumbled to his feet – his vision swam, and most of his body had been matted with that ever-annoying feeling of pins-and-needles. Blearily, he stumbled forwards, and his surroundings faded into a horrendous brown. By the time he caught himself he was bent over a basin in a grimy bathroom in Bilgewater. Going by the aftertaste he had just emptied his stomach – unsurprising, considering the amount of alcohol he had consumed. And yet, he could not bring himself to care.

"You… you foolish, foolish woman…" He wheezed, struggling to retain his sense of balance. Unbidden the recollections assaulted him – he recalled that night in Shurima, where a close friend-turned-lover had offered him sanctuary amidst her people. Farah, her name was – a native to Shurima. He recalled the words – and nights – they had shared together, and how she had tried to comfort him when _that_ time of the year rolled around again. He recalled her tanned skin, dark hair, hazel eyes and all the joyous moments he had with her and her friends in the times he hid amongst them.

And to his own sorrow, he realized he'd never see her – or any of them – ever again.

Their caravans had strayed into unmarked territory due an error on Farah's part. She had been the one leading the convoy – and going by the survivors' tales she had led them right to ruin. He had been notified mere hours ago, yet still the sorrow stung.

The nomads had wandered right into the territory of the Xer'Sai – and they hadn't even noticed until the beasts had torn half of them apart already. Farah… had been one of the first casualties. The Xer'Sai pulled her and her camel into the sands, load and all.

Now, here he stood, in a filthy bathroom in a run-down tavern in Bilgewater, hoping that gratuitous amounts of grog could at least ease the sorrows. He had known her well – three times he had hidden with her people, and three times he had known a peace that eclipsed his stays anywhere else. Now… Now they were all gone. Dead, and most likely buried – all because of one fool's error.

Farah's error.

He sniffed, a loud and ugly sound, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. In the back of his mind his conscience rang out, calling to him. Farah had been someone very, very dear to him – and she would not have tolerated seeing him like this, not for her sake. Absently he looked down to his side, at the flask of grog he had dropped on his way in. This… This was foolish. Inebriation would leave him vulnerable, exposed, and that would lead to him getting caught – and Farah had sworn him death if he ever got caught.

The memory brought a smile to his face, a stupid looking smile on his drunken features, but at the same time it shook some sense into him. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyes. He was vulnerable enough as it was – it was time to retire to his safe house. He opened the tap and splashed filthy, yet icy cold water onto his face. The jolt was enough to cast away most of the alcohol's effect. With a sleeve he dried his face, and turned around.

The sound of a blade exiting its sheath was the first thing he heard. He saw blue eyes glaring at him, and a flash of steel danced in his vision, and before he had taken a single step he had a Demacian short sword aimed at his throat.

Whatever effects the alcohol had on him vanished in that instant. His mouth formed a thin, straight line as the sharp tip hovered mere inches from his adam's apple. The blade's wielder – a short, rather scruffy man with thinning hair and a ridiculous moustache befitting a pirate – narrowed his eyes at him. "Garret Hillock," the man spoke, his tone even, neutral. "By Demacian law I hereby place you under arrest. Raise your hands and place them on the wall beside you."

Panic set in almost as quickly as the inebriation had left him. A Demacian, _here_ of all places? And why did he even look like a pirate? Garret's eyes darted around the dirty bathroom, looking, _hoping_ for something he could use to turn the odds in his favour. The short dagger had purchased was tucked away in the small of his back – any attempt to draw it would lead to certain death. And yet…

"Are you deaf?" The Demacian man sneered at him. "Hands against the wall _now_! Or so help me, I will apprehend you through force!"

Garret matched the man's glare, and slowly raised his hands to his sides. In desperation, he wondered just how sharp the man's blade was – if he was lucky he could swat it aside at the cost of a few fingers but –

The sword came closer to his throat, a sign of its wielder's impatience.

…Perhaps a few fingers were but a small price to pay. Garret started calculating a plan as well as his drunken mind could – his movements were deliberate and slow, a desperate attempt to stall for time. Behind the sneer and the glare, Garret could see this man was easily as nervous as he was. Now, it was all a matter of –

The door to the bathroom opened, and a drunken woman, no older than thirty, stumbled through accidentally bumping into the armed man. "Ehe, I don't think this is the girls' ro-Uhm… Sir? What's going on here?!"

…now, it was all a matter of _timing_.

The Demacian man flinched, going wide-eyed as he tried to hide the short sword from the woman's prying eyes. "N-Nothing, ma'am! Nothing to see here, please, return to-"

The opportunity presented itself, and Garret grabbed it without question.

Darting forwards he _slammed _ his shoulder into the Demacian agent's now-exposed back. The force sent him tumbling forwards, sputtering and spouting obscenities, and the young woman screamed bloody murder as Garret shoved her aside and darted out of the restroom. "_Hillock!_" He heard the agent's infuriated scream behind him as he stormed down the short hallway, and before he had even reached the exit leading to the main tavern he heard the thunderous footsteps behind. "_Halt, Hillock!"_ The man's roar was one of both fear and rage, and Garret could _hear_ the sound of the blade whistling through the air.

He didn't bother trying to pace himself – in a drunken stumble he burst back into the main area, just as the agent's footsteps started echoing through his skull from the proximity. A plan slowly started forming in his addled mind as he desperately pushed past patrons and bouncers alike. Bilgewater was known for its bar brawls, after all – if he could instigate some chaos… He heard the patrons behind him yelp in surprise and fear – likely they saw the man's sword and were making way. Out of sheer desperation, he did the only thing he could think of – he swiped a bottle of rum from a nearby patron's hand and, with as much force as his weakened, intoxicated form could muster, he _hurled_ it to the side.

He immediately ducked down when he heard the bottle shatter in the distance, and in the action he could _feel_ the Demacian agent's hand weaving through his long hair, missing a grab by mere _miliseconds._ He scurried forwards, eager to avoid the chaos that would ensue as a loud "What the _flying fuck!_" thundered across the bar. He heard the sound of a fist slamming into someone's face, then the sound of a bottle breaking, and before he could even blink, anarchy was born all around him. "Hillock!" He heard the agent yell, and mistakenly, Garret looked back. The old man seemed enraged as he stormed towards Garret, blade at the ready. "Don't think this will stop me, Hillock! You're coming with m-"

Just then a fist collided with the agent's face, and he was shucked aside by the impact. "Tha's for the bottle, ya daft cunt!" Garret heard the agent's attacker slur, a mug of grog in one hand and a cutlass in the other. "Think ya can lug a bottle at _me_ and walk away, eh?"

Garret did not need another warning, or another sign. Keeping his head low, he made his way towards the tavern's front door. He winced as pistol shots began to ring out – this fight was getting uglier by the second, and Garret did _not_ want to be present when things went from 'brawl' to 'worse'. He kept his movements inconspicuous, as under-the-radar as possible as he slowly made his way to the exit. He had to stop short as two men rolled by in front of him, yelling curses and punching each other in various places. "Hillock!" He heard the agent yell out again – apparently, besting a drunken pirate was not an arduous task at all. He paid it no mind – he dodged here, ducked there, and crept through a particularly nasty part of the chaos, but in the end he saw it – he was literally five feet from the door.

Instinct took over – he forewent his inhibitions about remaining unseen and inconspicuous, and outright _rammed_ the door open with his shoulder, literally bursting into the alley outside and nearly knocking some poor lass clean off her feet. Still, he did not waver – he did not even care. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, down cobblestone paths and into dark alleyways as the ruckus in the tavern was swallowed by the sound of the midnight seaside. He had gathered no small amount of looks, running through the slums – some of curiosity, some of ire, some of entertainment, even – but not once did he stop.

Only when his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out did he finally slow down. He was in a part of the city even he did not recognize – rats crept over bits of junk stashed outside worn-out doorways, and faulty lanterns flickered in the salty breeze that swept through the city. But in a way, none of it mattered. He slumped against a wall, sliding down until he was sitting, and unbidden, a laugh bubbled up in his chest. It spilled from his lips and echoed down the alleyway, undoubtedly waking some people and drawing the attention of others.

Yet still – he did not care.

There, in the darkness, he sat, with joyous, raucous laughter escaping him, until the shadows intensified around him. The laughter died down, and he felt his body go numb – the adrenaline was wearing off, slowly but surely – but it mattered little. He had slept in worse condition, after all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him to get up, and get to safety.

But the night's activity rendered that voice moot. Slumping back and making himself comfortable, Garret allowed the darkness to swallow him whole, drifting off into a crazed, fitful sleep.

It was at this point that the scenery around him dispelled entirely, and he blinked artificial fatigue from his eyes. The shadows seemed to seep away, as though someone had pulled a plug somewhere, allowing the darkness to drain away. He realized abruptly that he was slumped against the walls of the Reflection Chamber, sitting in the same posture he had sat while in Bilgewater. The darkness kept receding, and a soft exhale – _definitely_ not his own – finally clued him in he wasn't alone.

He dared look up, and his breath caught in his throat – of the two people before him, one was overshadowing the other in every way. She… was truly a beautiful sight. Hair as gold as the sunrise framed blue eyes as cool as ice, and regardless of their lightless environment her armour seemed to shine on its own, casting a wonderful reflection on the pristine white wings that sprouted from her back. _An… An angel?_ Garret thought absently.

She raised an immaculately trimmed eyebrow as she noticed he was staring at her with a slack jaw, and quickly Garret shook his head to dispel such an impolite action. The second visitor was much less unique – most of her was covered by her Summoner's robes, leaving only amber eyes staring at him from under her hood. Absently he noticed the spike-shaped tattoo running down across her eye, and only _now _did he realize that the Summoner was actually kneeling. In the darkness he could have seen a look of worry on her face, but he passed it off as a trick of the shadows.

"I…" He started, unsure of what to say after his little blunder. He was still slightly out of breath, and his whole frame shook from reliving the experiences. "I realize I was… I was staring. How impolite of me… I am sorry, m'ladies," he said sincerely, with a shaky voice, and bowed his head as best he could. "I was… lost, you could say. I have… I have regained my bearings now."

"You needn't worry," the Summoner spoke up, smiling slightly in the darkness. "How do you feel, Garret?"

"I feel…" He sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall. "That was all… so lifelike…" He mused as he tried to calm himself. His nerves were shot, and it felt as though all the wounds around his heart had been yanked open – he had been expecting many things when he entered the Reflection Chamber, but what he had just experienced… It shook him.

"I must say I am impressed, Garret," the Summoner spoke, standing up again. "Most try to fight the Judgement once it starts. You, however… You did no such thing. It was as though you… accepted, that you were reliving those memories. It was as though you were used it."

"Thirteen years," Garret answered, finally getting dispelling the trembling that plagued his body. "Thirteen years, those very memories have been haunting my dreams at every turn. I hardly ever recall other moments in my dreams. Just that… Just death, and sorrow, and fear… After so long, m'lady, I dare say I am quite used to it by now. Usually… In the past, I got sick of it… I got sick of recalling nothing of my father but his grave. I got sick of recalling nothing of Farah but the report of her death…" He shook his head. "I used to get angry that I couldn't dream about anything else. Now… Now I've gotten used to it. I… At times it feels I am dead to the sorrow. Other times… it feels as though someone drove a knife into my chest," he said, placing a hand over his heart. "It is something I have learned to live with."

"You must have cared dearly for that woman," the Summoner said, a look of sympathy crossing her features. "Farah, was it? We saw more of her in the memories the Reflection Chamber laid bare. She… She was truly precious to you, wasn't she?"

Garret sighed in response, locking eyes with the Summoner. "More than you could ever know, m'lady," he answered truthfully. "More than I can bring myself to describe. I… I will not try to make such wonderful feelings and memories into something finite, something _describable_. I would rather remember the unfathomable emotions… even if my dreams decree otherwise."

"Her loss must have caused you unbearable pain," the Summoner noted hesitantly.

"I do not focus on the loss, m'lady," Garret answered. There was a unique type of conviction in his voice, despite how weak it sounded. "No matter how much her death hurts me… I will not grieve that she is gone. Rather, I will rejoice… that I was blessed enough to share in her life."

These words drew a wide smile from the Summoner, a _warm_ smile that relayed a sense of pride and respect. "Well said, Garret," she mused as she took a step back. "Well said indeed. Garret, my name is Vessaria Kolminye – I am a High Councillor of the Institute, and the one who chaired this little… 'Judgement'." She turned to face the Angel hovering at her side. "This is Kayle, the Judicator. No doubt you've been told of the role she will play?" Garret nodded once, and the woman, Vessaria – 'Ol' Vess' as Jax called her – smiled again. "Good, good. I will have you know that Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV, and Captain Garen Crownguard were both present for your Judgement. They have seen all that needs to be seen – the Judgement has revealed that you are, indeed, innocent regarding the charge of murder on your name. The Demacian Summoners – and the Prince, at that – are working towards having that particular charge dropped. Rejoice, young man – your freedom is that much closer."

At these words, Garret slumped back slightly. His entire body seemed to lose all its energy, but despite this, there was a small smile tugging at Garret's lips.

"Captain Crownguard," Vessaria started again, "has asked me to relay a message to you. He, himself, has a role to play in your absolution, so sadly he could not remain. However," she paused, studying Garret's face for a sign of… _something_, he guessed, "I will not be relaying that message. As tense as your relationship with Demacia and its citizens may be, I feel that his message is part of a conversation that is… strictly between the two of you," she said with finality. "Whether or not you speak to him is up to you. Now before you ask," she spoke up, effectively silencing Garret before the young man could offer much of an argument or formulate any words at all, "I have already taken the liberty of… getting to work, on your charge of desertion. Granted, we are still going to have the Judicator contact whatever is resting in your arm," she said, a sly smile appearing on her lips. "However, regardless of what she finds, we must admit that it is still a unique application of magic and, as such, we wish to offer you asylum," she said, "in order to help you with your latest struggle."

For several moments you could hear a pin drop in the dead silence of the room. Garret, much to his own ire, found himself absolutely speechless – he felt his body begin to quiver again, and he cast his gaze down, venting every ounce of willpower he could muster into not turning into an emotional wreck there and then. The sheer amount of emotion he was feeling was slowly but surely threatening to overthrow his inhibition – for the first time in thirteen _long_ years, Garret felt a sense of absolute, unbridled joy. It was a happiness he had not felt since his family had passed, a gleeful sense of peace and _freedom_ that caused his throat to knot all over again. He wove his fingers together, hoping to stem or at least _hide_ his shaking hands. "M'lday…" He started off, shakily at first. "High Councillor, I… I do not have the words to describe how… how thankful I am right now. I… I doubt I ever will, in all honesty…" Although his voice quivered, and his entire body shook, the smile on his face…

…It was one of the liveliest smiles he had ever shown.

"It is the very least we could do, Garret," Vessaria said. Off to the side, Kayle had floated towards the marble doors and exited, off to do something only she knew. "Would you like a few hours to rest? I will have no qualms with calling these Summoners back at a later time – I'm sure the Starchild has informed you that your health comes first here; that goes for everyone – Summoner, Champion or otherwise."

"No, no, I," Garret said, trailing off as he shook his head. Still quivering, he shuffled to his feet, keeping one hand against the cold stone walls in order to help him maintain balance. "I merely need a moment or two… to recollect myself." At that moment, the heavy doors to the Chamber opened up, and Kayle floated in once more. Only now did Garret notice the helm tucked under one arm – and oddly enough, she was carrying… a flask of grog? Yes, the Angel had a flask of Gragas' grog in one hand for some reason.

She stopped in front of him, and this time thankfully Garret had enough self-control to refrain from staring again. "Drink this," she said softly, handing him the flask. "I do not normally condone it, but with the way your nerves are acting up, I believe an exception is in order." Garret blinked, confusion evident on his face, but accepted the beverage nonetheless.

"My… My thanks, Lady Judicator," he said sincerely, bowing his head again.

"There is hardly any need to be _that_ formal, Garret," the High Councillor chuckled to herself. As Garret started downing the grog, she waved her hand at a part of the wall, and magic briefly flared along her fingertips. Several moments later the wall itself starting peeling apart – bricks rearranged themselves in odd patterns, shifting and turning as they split off to form an archaic arch in the far wall. Torchlight shone through the opening, finally bathing the dark room with some semblance of light. "The Summoners will be here shortly, if you are adamant about continuing," Vessaria spoke. "Fortunately the task will require very little of you, Garret – this time the task falls to the Judicator. All we need from you is calmness and patience. Can you do that for us, Garret?"

The former deserter drew his hand across his mouth timidly, wiping away the wetness his beverage had left behind. "I have an abundance of those at my disposal, High Councillor," he said confidently, despite the quiver in his voice. His shaking had died down, most likely due to the toxic beverage he had just seemingly inhaled, and his pallor was getting better by the moment. "What must be done?"

The Councillor smiled at him, as footsteps were heard coming from the archway. "Merely take a seat at the centre of the room," she intoned, motioning to the now-illuminated runic circle sitting at the mentioned spot. "As soon as the Summoners arrive they will use their magic to create a Focus – a medium, that we intend to use to establish communications."

"Will I… Will I have to remove the chains around my arm?" Garret inquired as he did as asked, sitting down and crossing his legs on the runic circle. There was something else in his voice now – an underlying fear that wasn't present during the Judgement. Vessaria knew all too well what caused that fear – she had read the Starchild's reports, after all.

"No," she reassured him, with one of those half-smiles people of authority and standing were known for. "No, I doubt that will be necessary. We High Councillors are aware of methods to bypass the suppression – you could say that is why I am here in the first place." As her words died down, several shadows blotted out the lights in the archway behind them, and from those shadows, four Summoners entered the Reflection Chamber. Their faces were hidden by their hoods, and they were adorned in cloaks of a deep, _deep_ violet – but despite the ominous appearance, it was obvious Garret felt no threat from them. They took their places around Garret, forming a haphazard pentagon around the runic circle. With a slow, measured gait, Vessaria herself strode over to the open gap and filled the last spot herself. "I do hope this doesn't disconcert you, Garret," she said lightly. "Most would be flustered at how quickly this is proceeding. Are you sure you have recovered enough? Are you entirely certain you do not wish to rest?"

"No," Garret shook his head, responding truthfully, a gesture that drew a muted chuckle from the four Summoners. "But High Councillor… I am unsure whether you are aware just how _badly_ I want this over and done with. I… I _need_ to know what the hell this thing in my arm is. I need to know what it wants, and I need to know how it will be dealt with. The sooner we finish this… The sooner I can discover those things."

"Admirable," she stated, before looking over at the Angel that had been hovering off to the side. "Judicator, if you will?" Upon being addressed, the Angel nodded curtly, hovering over to the centre of the little pentagon the Summoners formed. With two loud _clacks_ her armoured feet touched down on the cold floor and, tucking her wings in behind her, she sank down – first on one knee, then on both, until she was 'seated' comfortably. Garret, for his part, was oddly concerned – after all, effective as it might have been he doubted that armour was comfortable, _especially_ in that position.

"I… I am sorry, if this causes you discomfort, Lady Judicator," he said, his voice soft and apologetic. He frowned to himself – maybe it would have been better to wait, after all…

"Pay no mind to it," the Judicator responded with the _barest_ of smiles. "It must be done – as you have said, it would be beneficial to complete this task as early as possible."

Garret, unable to form an answer, merely nodded. He struggled for a moment, his dark cloak billowing around him, and after a moment or two he merely sighed. It seemed freeing his tainted arm was proving an exercise in futility. Grunting irately, he opted to remove the entire cloak – it took a moment, however, to find the one part that had somehow knotted during the Judgement. Finally achieving success, however, he tossed the garment aside. He did not need it bothering him now. He chanced a look at his malformed limb – it was the same as he remembered it from the morning; thin, yet muscular, and spiky; _very_ spiky. The shards of bronze-like material retained their sharpness despite numerous attempts to remove or blunt them. Even now, confined with the intricate runic chain, it pulsed and glowed, revealing almost _frighteningly_ detailed musculature beneath the dark skin.

This… This was not a human limb. He simply could not stress that enough.

He noticed the Angel before him was staring at the arm too. She seemed oddly perplex – as perplexed as one could look while maintaining a mask of stoicism. Around them, the Summoners raised their hands in a flash of _brilliant_ azure glow, their magics flared to life. It danced across the stone floor and rebounded off the walls, forming wisps of magnificent radiance that danced around the centre. Garret himself was taken aback by how absolutely _astounding_ the display was, and he couldn't help but wonder whether they were doing this on purpose. Even the Angel before him was smiling now – were Summoner magics truly so profound?

As one, the magnificent blue wisps started twisting inwards, gather between Garret and the Judicator. What used to be tendrils of mist started changing, _warping_, and before their very eyes a crystal orb started forming, rapidly growing in size as the magics around them converged. Even as the lights started retreating towards the centre of the room, the orb held a glow that shamed everything the Summoners had shown him so far. It was very, _very_ enticing just to reach out and run his fingers across the surface – but he decided against it. After all, beautiful as it might have been, magic still had the potential to be dangerous.

"When you are ready, Garret," he heard Councillor Kolminye speak up, "I want you to reach out with your chained arm, and touch its fingers to the orb."

Simple enough, he mused, looking down at his mutated arm. It glowed again, almost _eagerly_, and the chains surrounding it rustled just a bit, enough to make the links clink against each other. Frowning to himself, Garret raised his arm, and spread his hand apart. Four clawed fingers arched outwards as he moved the limb towards to orb, and just as his hand neared the concentration of magic, he lurched forward as the orb literally _sucked_ his hand against it. The brilliant azure glow was lost in an instant, replaced by a downright _sinister_ shade of crimson that made Garret regret even partaking in this act in the first place. He strained against it, trying to pull his hand off the globe, gritting his teeth as he leaned back and tried to get his limb back – but it was all for naught. His hand wasn't budging.

"Do not fight it, Garret," he heard the High Councillor's voice in his ears. The eerie red glow had shrouded the Summoners forms, leaving nought but black silhouettes against even blacker walls. "Relax yourself and ease into the magics. No harm will come to you – I promise you, Garret. Judicator, are you prepared?"

The Angel was the only person in the room Garret could still see. Despite the look of contemplation on her face she responded without hesitation – one gauntleted hand wrapped around the other's wrist, and with a simple, yet forceful tug, the golden handguard slid off, revealing slender, pale fingers befitting her angelic visage. She spared but a single glance – a single moment where their eyes locked, and for that single moment, she offered him a smile; a smile that rendered him dumbfounded. Then, without hesitation, she raised her bare hand and touched it to the orb as well.

Just as Garret had shaken his stupor away, the chamber _exploded_ into bright, almost unending light.

* * *

><p>At first, there was nothing but a blank white abyss.<p>

She did not truly know whether this was the norm or not – after all, this was the first time she had even done something such as this. However, she left nothing to chance – she was on her feet the _moment_ she had regained her senses, her removed gauntlet already reattached and her helmet placed firmly over her head. One hand rested on the hilt of her sword, ready for anything, while her holy energies focused themselves in the other hand.

Whatever this spirit threw at her, she would be ready for it.

It was at that moment that she heard it – over the blank expanse, across the white abyss, a soft giggle floated around. It echoed, really, in one direction, then another, a sound so soft a normal beig would have missed it completely. And as the giggle danced around her, Kayle frowned, wondering just what this spirit was doing.

Then the abyss _shattered_.

Giant, crimson cracks exploded into the blank expanse, _weeping_ crimson smoke into the colourless distance and painting what once was white a _murderous _shade of red. The cracks grew, expanded, _split open_, flooding the nothingness with more and more smog, and soon enough Kayle found herself surrounded by the odd vapour. It lunged, then, rearing like a snake before diving right at her – but Kayle was not mere mortal. With but a flourish of her unarmed hand her holy magics surrounded her, creating a golden blanket around her that outright _rejected_ the malicious smoke. It recoiled off her holy intervention, flinching back as if injured, before pooling around her little dome of safety, surrounding her entirely. Soon there wasn't a single shred of white left – merely the smoke remained, with herself hovering inside it.

Absently she noticed the tip of her wing protruded from her protective bubble, and she immediately withdrew it – only to flinch in abject horror.

The tip of her wing was covered in blood – and it was _not_ her own.

Suddenly, the origin of the smoke became clear: it was not smoke at all. She shuddered as the underlying horror afflicted her – she was drifting in a sea of _blood_, blood that had taken the form of smoke and mist. She repressed a slight shudder as realization set in. Blood was a liquid – what on _earth_ could have turned it into _smoke_?

As if on cue, the giggle sounded again – louder, this time, as if it waited right outside her dome.

And there, in the midst of the bloody vapour, she saw it – two glowing white eyes, a wonderful contrast to the crimson around it.

"…_D_o y_ou_ li_k_e _m_y w_ea_po_n_…?"

Immediately, Kayle raised her sword at pointed it right at the eyes gazing towards her. The blade shuddered, glowing gold, and by force of her own righteous fury the blade _blazed_, its length covered in holy golden flames. That voice… That voice seemed unnatural, _broken_ in a way - as though it did not even know how to emphasize different syllables at all. It resembled nails on a chalkboard, the scrap of steel on stone – all different kinds of unpleasant, wrapped into a dark tone she could barely begin to describe. "Speak sense," she demanded, her eyes narrowed behind the visor of her helm.

The spirit – if it could even be called that, merely giggled again. "_I d_o not t_hink_ I w_il_l… _Yo_u se_em_ _li_ke yo_u_ _co_ul_d_ be f_un_… B_ut_ I _w_i_ll_ not _sp_e_a_k w_it_h yo_u_… _N_a_ug_ht_y_ _lit_t_l_e _an_ge_l_…" The eyes shifted, _moved_, floated around in the clouds of smoke, circling Kayle and her little bubble of protection.

"What do you mean?" Kayle inquired, allowing her sword to drop just a little bit. "I'll have you know I am here to judge you, spirit. If I find you to be a threat to your host I will have you sealed away without mercy or hesitation – and right now you seem to be enough of a threat to make my task easy. So I suggest you cease with your games," she said, her voice intensifying in tandem with the fire coating her blade, "and come clean! What is your intent?"

The spirit giggled again, a cacophony of melancholy that seemed to originate from everywhere. "_M_y… Y_ou_ _**a**_**r**_**e**_ f_un_, ar_en_'t y_ou_…?" It said with a giggle, proceeding to pace around the Judicator. "…W_h_y, _sho_ul_d_ I sp_eak_ w_i_th _yo_u, w_he_n y_o_u a_re_ al_re_a_dy_ s_o_ e_ag_er t_o_ di_sbe_li_ev_e?" It asked, its tone jagged and _raw_. "…I _ha_d s_o_ _ho_p_e_d… t_ha_t m_y_ _hos_t h_a_d c_om_e to _v_i_si_t m_e_… 'T_is_ th_e_ le_as_t he c_oul_d do, af_ter_ I s_av_ed _hi_s l_if_e…"

"Saved him?" Kayle sneered under her helm. "Is that what you call it? You twisted a young man's limb and _cursed_ him with your vile presence! You tried to corrupt his mind with your vile presence, as you tried to steal his body from him! You tried to turn an _innocent_ young man into a _monster_!"

"_**I di**_**d **_**n**_**o s**_**uc**_**h **_**thing**_**!**"

Kayle flinched as two _absurdly_ powerful impacts slammed into her barrier, the force sending her careening backwards through the crimson fog. She spread her wings out in an attempt to halt her travel. By some impossibility she heard the nails raking across her barrier, and with a resolute cry she splayed her wings as far as they would go. The action halted her immediately, and in retaliation the flames leapt from her sword, flying through the golden, liquid-like dome intent on searing whatever attacked her to a crisp.

It was futile – the flames burned nothing but smog before returning to her blade and withering out. The killing intent, however, that projected _rage_, it still lingered – and the source of it was now barely five feet from Kayle's face. She saw it clearly – two handprints had embedded themselves into her barrier, sizzling from the contact yet remaining relentless, as though the contact barely fazed it. Before her the two white eyes shot her a glare fiercer than even the most battle-hungry Champions of the Institute could hope to muster. Her words had angered this spirit – that was good. Hopefully now she could get some answers.

"…_I_… d_id_ _no_t…" the spirit growled, the sneer evident in its shattered, inhuman voice. "…_yo_u t_hi_n_k_ I di_d_ _no_t s_e_n_se_ t_h_e_m_… y_o_u t_hin_k I _di_d _re_al_i_z_e_ t_he_ _d_a_nge_r… b_ut_ I _d_id… _I_ s_en_se_d_ t_h_o_se_ vi_le_ _m_a_gic_s… I s_en_s_e_d a k_ill_e_r_, b_ar_e_l_y _fi_ve d_amn_e_d _f_e_e_t_ _fr_o_m_ my ho_st_…! I _of_fe_re_d him… I _of_f_e_re_d _hi_m_ _m_y k_now_led_ge_… on h_ow_ to f_ig_h_t_… h_ow_ t_o_ k_il_l… f_or_ hiso_wn_ s_af_e_ty_ – f_or_ **o**_**u**_**r o**_**w**_**n **_**sa**_**f**_**et**_**y**!" The final cry was emphasized with yet another mighty blow to her barrier, and once again Kayle felt it shift under the force.

"Safety?" Kayle mimicked, disgust evident in her voice. "You claim you could sense danger, could sense a _killer_, but you could not even sense the distress you were causing your host?!"

"…Y_ou_ _w_o_u_l_d_ _no_t u_nde_r_st_an_d_…" The spirit snarled, and the handprints disappeared from Kayle's barrier. "…Y_ou_ w_o_u_ld_ n_e_v_e_r u_nd_er_stan_d…" It mused as its eyes drifted further and further away. Kayle frowned as the spirit made its retreat. "…Y_ou_… ha_ve_ al_re_ad_y_ d_ecide_d… s_o_ I… w_il_l n_ot_ tr_y_ to c_on_v_i_n_ce_ y_ou_… I _wi_ll sp_ea_k t_o_ my _ho_s_t_… and m_y_ h_os_t _a_lo_n_e… n_ot_ w_i_th s_om_e a_rro_g_a_nt l_it_tle a_ng_el… t_o_o e_ag_er t_o_ s_ee_ t_h_e s_in_ in _othe_r_s_… to _pa_y m_in_d t_o_ the _si_n i_n_ _he_rs_e_lf…"

"Where are you going?" Kayle demanded. "I am not done with you yet, spirit!"

"…_Bu_t _I_… a_m_ _do_ne… w_it_h y_ou_…" The crimson smoke receded, and patches of bright white begin to shine through the red clouds. "…I _wil_l s_pe_ak t_o_ _m_y h_ost_… an_d_ _m_y _ho_st a_lon_e…" it repeated, as the smog cleared, receded, _shrank away_ as the spirit itself retreated. "…_I_ car_e_ li_ttl_e… f_or_ _yo_u…" The white abyss had returned now, dominating what remained of the smoke and contrasting it to the extent that it almost made Kayle's eyes hurt. And yet, those damn eyes kept glaring at her. Even when there was only a handful of smoke left, the glare did not relent – not until there was not even a shred of crimson left on the blank horizon.

Even after the thing had receded, Kayle kept her guard up a while longer. The spirit had shown the strength to capable of attacking her with such force it could shift her barrier. Only a handful of beings in the Institute of War could lay claim to having that amount of strength. If it returned again, while he guard was lowered… She would rather not imagine the consequences of such an encounter. Still, the being had attracted her grudging curiosity – as a Judicator, she knew wholly when someone was lying. Seeing through lies was a mandatory skill for someone of her position – and as much as she did not want to admit it, while the spirit was hostile, violent and somewhat intelligent, it was not lying.

She remained that way – blade at the ready, posed to strike – for at least another five minutes. When it became clear the spirit was, indeed, done with her, she sighed to herself. In a way, she had failed – she could not discern whether the being was a threat or not. For that… Much as it dismayed her to admit it, they would need Garret himself to discern _that_.

Through her mental link with High Councillor Kolminye, she informed the Summoners that her business was done. It was unlikely that the spirit would return, given how much she had seemingly angered it. It seemed almost temperamental, with a hairline trigger to match its violent self. As they blue wisps of magic surrounded her, she couldn't help but wonder: Despite everything, despite all the suffering it had caused…

…was this spirit truly a foe… or was it a friend?

* * *

><p>When the lights dispersed, she found herself back in the Reflection Chamber, sitting in the same kneeling position she had 'left' it in. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness – but most of what surrounded her was visible enough. The young man, Garret, had a look of utter concern on his face. His eyes seemed almost fearful, though – as though he dreaded what she had to say. She dared not look at the Summoners – at least not just yet. Much as she did not want to admit it, though, the tension in their stances spoke volumes. More than likely they knew of her failure already.<p>

"Lady Judicator," Garret spoke up, ever formal and polite. Between the fear and the worry, it seemed the worry won out – despite everything pointing to the fact that, in this case, it should have been the latter. "Are you hurt?" He inquired. "It didn't… It didn't attack you, did it? The… The orb turned blue again halfway through, and my arm… it stopped pulsing. What… What happened?"

Her stoic demeanour denied her the chance to utter a dejected sigh. Almost listlessly, Kayle got to her feet, still not daring to look at the Summoners. "I… I have failed. I could not discern the spirit's intentions. There was a slight misunderstanding, and… we fought. Or _it_ fought, and I resisted. Still, it seemed angered, and refused to speak with me further." She glanced down at the young man before her, careful not to wince at his outright confused expression. Steeling herself, she uttered the words she doubted the man wanted to hear at all.

"The spirit says it will only speak with you, Garret – nobody else."

* * *

><p>…<strong>Aaaaand, cliffhanger! My sincerest, sincerest apologies for leaving it at such an uncomfortable note, but I fear had I written on this chapter would easily have breached 30K words – and that, is torment I would rather not inflict on you. 26K is bad enough – I <strong>_**never**_** imagined that a simple expository chapter could turn into such a doorstopper. I am well and truly sorry – but I could not find an earlier place to break it off. **

**Moving on, though, in this chapter I've given you the first look into Garret's true personality, as well as the reasoning behind his desertion. I will admit I have no idea how this is going to be received – while I would like to stroke my own ego by believing he's a unique, fresh addition to the OC's currently in the section, I simply cannot be sure. For that, I will need your opinions – is he likeable enough to warrant more future PoVs, or should I stick to the canonical champions more often?**

**Also on that same note: Despite Garret's reaction to Kayle's appearance, this will ****not**** be an OCxKayle story. If anything, in this chapter I hope I've managed to set it up in such a way that I can hold out on any romance until much later in the story – it is a tenet of mine not to pair an OC with a canonical character unless that character is well received, and, well, I can't judge that from two chapters now, can I? **

**Nonetheless, I ramble, and I feel it is about time I ended this little post-chapter author's note. On a last impulse I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to the reviewers whose phenomenal reviews managed to egg me on to get this posted before Christmas:**

**tacitrunGenocide, SilverstormXD, Unseen Lurker, Guardian of All, Deftex and Scott the Anon.**

**This chapter goes out with special thanks aimed at you all – your amazing feedback and confidence in my ability went a long way towards getting this published. To you, I wish to say my sincerest thanks.**

**And also, my sincerest thanks to everyone reading this – knowing I can entertain you is what keeps me going.**

**Now I will end this note (for real, this time), by bidding you all farewell, and a very, very merry Christmas **

**Until the next chapter,  
>Cheerio!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Pre-Chapter A/N: **

* * *

><p><strong>Will of Iron, Heart of Gold<br>Chapter III  
>Alliance<strong>

In the silence of the small, somewhat homey office she was offered, there was nary a sound but that of a pen gliding scratchily along faded, almost yellow paper. It had become somewhat of a routine for her, by now – practically her every day started and ended in this little office, opening and closing cases, running damage control, offering verdicts and courses of action and even placing the final stamp on an order of sentencing. Such was the somewhat tedious life the Judicator had inherited during her stay in the Institute of War – but it was hardly a chore. She had official battles, bouts of sparring on the Summoner's Rift, and the occasional sitting with close friends – few as they were – to break the monotony of acting as her title demanded her to.

Yet sometimes, even the little office could become constricted – and it had little to do with the lavish armour she wore.

With a somewhat gurgled sigh, Kayle set down her pen and eyed the paper before her with enough ire to set it alight, had she harboured the same magics as the Summoners. Sadly, the dark ink merely twinkled in the dim light, as if mocking her with the longevity of the events in encompassed. Gingerly, her gauntleted hands came to rest on her temples, tracing circular patterns in a bid to stave off the headache that was threatening to explode into her skull.

The case of Garret Hillock, and the rampant spirit-slash-wraith that had mutated and taken refuge inside his right arm…

…was a case that had landed her in quite a bit of hot water with the High Councillors.

Not only had she managed to fail _spectacularly_ at gleaming information from the spirit – due in no small part to her own hot-headed approach towards it – but she had also somehow forced the spirit into willing reclusion, a nonchalant state of non-communication that would maintain itself until the being's own demands had been met. This, of course, meant the Summoners would have no luck either – and given the fact that the 'tainted' flesh had weaved itself around Garret's spine and heart, High Councillor Kolminye was… _less than inclined_ to take a forceful approach regarding the matter.

The worst part of the scenario seemed to manifest itself in Garret's own psyche. Something awful spawned in the young man when he heard the spirit wanted _him_ and none other – behind emerald irises Kayle had easily discerned the wariness and the fear, and the resignation to some horrible series of events that only something as macabre and ominous as an unwanted spiritual guest could set into motion. The Judgement had… ended, rather abruptly afterward. Fear and uncertainty crippled Garret into inaction – the young man had literally _shut down_ at the prospect of having to meet his unseen assailant face-to-face, and as such, the High Councillors had called an end to the trial in the Reflection Chamber – an _indefinite_ end at that, one that would last until Garret was ready to face the wraith.

She inhaled, just a bit louder and longer than usual.

All of this drama, because of one damned spirit…

Narrow-minded and prejudiced as her outlook on the matter may have been, Kayle was certain the spirit was still ominous. All spirits and spectres and wraiths were, as far as she concerned herself. She had borne witness to ample proof during her stay in the League. She had witnessed scorn fuelled by an intent that could rival the ideals of whole city states, shrouded in a sickening, smoky visage as black as the illimitable night in Nocturne, the Eternal Nightmare, just as she had borne witness to the omnicidal pyromania and explosive hatred of Brand, the Burning Vengeance. She had seen first-hand the malice of the denizens of the Shadow Isles, from the sadistic, steel-linked form of the spectre Thresh to the unstoppable onslaught of shadows and death at the hands of Hecarim, the Shadow of War. She had seen the steel titan Mordekaiser rip mortals' souls from their forms with a variety of amusement, and even Kalista, who was widely seen as a 'neutral' party, wasn't exactly a shining example of benevolence, what with the legion of vengeful souls she commanded, and her homicidal loathing of even the most casual betrayals, like little secrets or tiny white lies.

No, in her experience, spirits – especially the violent kind, like the one ailing Garret Hillock – rarely led to anything good. It was for this reason alone that she had drawn the scorn of the High Councillors upon herself and advised Garret to _stay away_ from the spirit – to have it permanently suppressed as soon as mortally possible and to carry on with his now _free_ life. She had told him that nothing good could come of communing with this dark… _thing_. She remembered clearly the many times she had seen that bit of advice ignored – her sister had fallen, turned into a withered, perverse parody of her own kind. The Summoner, Istvaan, had erased himself from existence and blighted Runeterra with the being called Fiddlesticks in the same fashion. Now, this entity in Garret's arm… a being that could forge _solid weapons_ from a blood vapour, and command them as though they were extensions of itself… She did not bother entertaining the idea of what may happen should the thing take over. If anything, her advice to the young man had been a form of damage control – hopefully _he_ would actually listen, and veer away from such foolishness.

She stood up from her chair, her armour plates shifting and scraping across one another as she strolled over to the small, yet filled bookshelf in her office. Almost daintily, a gauntleted finger traced the names of the tomes before her as her wings spread out behind her, majestic and graceful as she felt the stiffness residing amidst her feathers recede. Her eyes followed her fingertip, occasionally darting ahead as she sifted through the books in search of the information she needed.

It was at that moment that the boundaries around her office went haywire.

It had been a precaution taken by the Institute itself – several beings of… 'importance' were given wards and boundaries around their abodes and workplaces in the event of a brash or desperate move by a Summoner or Champion. Being the Judicator, her little 'office' was even more secure than usual, to such an extent that she could be warned of a possible visit before the _visitors_ themselves were barely in the hallway in which her little workspot could be found. She paid it little mind, though – whoever it was seemed rather lacking in terms of hostile intent, at least for the moment.

Just as a precaution, thought, the runic markings on her gauntlet lit up, ready to summon her blessed blade at a moment's notice. Absently she cleared her throat, preparing for the standard, monotonous trial that would soon commence. Someone would knock, she would command them to enter, and they would do so shyly and tentatively, speaking warily and slowly and generally being a nuisance and a detriment to her own quick, precise, professional demeanour and outlook. Nonetheless, it was a ritual she was used to. It took much more than beating around a bush to inspire her wrath, after all.

Fortunately, her concerns for trepidation and time-wasting flew right out of the window - at roughly the same time her door was flung open with careless force, and little concern for etiquette and procedure and common _manners_.

Kayle did not dignify the visitor with immediate attention. Despite the runes on her gauntlet glowing brighter, she kept at her activity of scanning her bookshelf, hoping to provide the image that a simple tome was more important than the pig who had just stormed her little office. Her eyes narrowed – there was only person she knew of who had such a blatant disregard for her own authority and title, and if she were correct on this guess – which she almost certainly was – this morning would be anything _but_ pleasant.

_Morgana._

Sighing to herself, she let her hand drop to her side. Kayle's sister was a colossal calamity in the Judicator's own life – a living, breathing reminder of her failure and a walking, talking taunt that teased her with wry grins and blatant disregard whilst hiding behind the fact that she _could not be touched_. They were 'sisters' in concept only – Kayle had severed ties with the Fallen Angel many millennia ago, and the rift between them now was large and barren enough to warrant little care for the fact that Kayle could feel such loathing for one of her own.

And now, said 'Fallen Angel' was likely sitting behind her in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, a spiteful grin on dark lips and pale, thin features. More than likely word of Kayle's 'failure' had reached her younger sister and now, lo and behold, the Fallen Angel had come to taunt her about it – just as she had so many times past.

Kayle steeled her features. She'd allow Morgana no sick pleasure in this little verbal confrontation. She would be the very exemplar of professionalism and dutifulness – just as she had been every time her loathsome sister paid her a visit. After all, they had done this more times than either of them cared to remember. It would be simple – Morgana would state her business or leave, and if she didn't, well… Kayle's sword was always in arm's reach. Much as she didn't want Morgana near her, situations like these were… well beyond the Judicator's control.

Stifling a tired sigh, she turned around to glare at her unwanted visitor – only to freeze, raising an immaculate eyebrow at the sight before her. While her visitor was indeed garbed in the same violet shades her sister favoured, there was no pale skin, no exposed midriff, no spiteful grin or decaying wings. No animosity, either – instead, she bore witness to a lithe frame wreathed in purple. A pale, three fingered hand clutched a worn, bent-out-of-shape brass lamppost, and a dark blue tousle rested atop the hood that covered a unique, six-eyed helm.

"Yo," the Grandmaster at Arms spoke casually.

The barest semblance of a resigned sigh escaped her, a sound so soft only those with the keenest senses could hear – and much to her growing ire, Jax had shifted in such a way that indicated he had heard it quite clearly. At that moment, the headache that had been threatening her for hours now erupted into her skull - one that would spite her for several hours on end, knowing the Grandmaster's personality.

Just once, she allowed herself to sigh.

_Why couldn't it have been Morgana…?_

* * *

><p>A dull <em>thud<em> echoed through the cavernous air of the Institute's library as yet another dust-littered tome was stacked upon a pile of useless texts and nonsensical scrolls. A dejected sigh accompanied the slight scraping sound of leather on wood, a tell-tale signal of yet another tome being dragged forwards and opened. Yet there was little eagerness or drive behind the pale, wiry hand currently paging through the monstrous book – such a drive, such a _hope_, had long since abandoned the poor soul seeking answers. High above, amidst floating arrays of scrolls and tomes that hovered underneath a _perfect_ recreation of a stormy night sky, several candles drifted slowly and leisurely, suspended in an almost nonchalant display of magical prowess (or ease), and bathing the array of tables and chairs below in a bright-yet-dim shower of melancholy lighting.

Fitting, actually, considering the similar state of melancholy now afflicting the library's only current visitor's mind.

With an almost _weary_ sigh, Garret Hillock ran his normal hand through the messy mane of dark hair he had accumulated during his years on the run. Absently the same hand reached down to lazily scratch at his cheek – he had managed to shave himself, but it seemed he never truly could escape the hindrance of stubble. His eyes, equal parts desperate and fatigued, scanned over the latest book before him – a red, leatherbound journal regarding the differing schools of hemomancy and other blood-related sorcery in Valoran. It seemed as though the art itself was limited to Noxian territory – a fact that surprised him little – but it was still useless knowledge. He could gleam no information from the articles about various master hemomancers. They all seemed the same – ambitious young sorcerers who could bend the very blood of their victims and use it to cause all manner of afflictions.

And yet, despite all the different articles, Garret was still left in the dark.

Thirty-three tomes and half as many scrolls, he recalled morosely. _Thirty-three_ – and not _one_ of the books held a single clue regarding the entity that had turned his arm so abhuman, so _abnormal_. The spirit hiding in his arm was _alien_ in its existence; it was a being that could turn blood to _smoke_, and use said smoke to forge a vast array of independent, almost _sentient_ weaponry. The High Councillors were absolutely stumped – even more so after the Judicator, Kayle, had been _told off_ by it, for want of a better word. Try as they may, the Summoners could discern absolutely _nothing_ about the spirit in the days that followed – it remained uncooperative, unresponsive, downright _unaware_; it was though his right arm was just a deadened, mutated limb.

Was he clenching that arm's fist? He couldn't be sure – he had no feeling in the limb, no awareness of how he was moving it or even _if_ he was moving it. He kept it concealed under the faded brown travelling cloak he wore – and did his outright best to ignore the way the chains around the spikes clinked and clanked against each other whenever he would move. The sounds seemed to _taunt_ him in a way – as if trying to remind him that the entity in his arm was _still there_ and _still watching_.

Watching…

That terrified him most of all.

The spirit, or wraith, or soul or monster or _whatever_ it was – it was _aware_. _Sentient_. And according to the Judicator it was _more_ than aware of his own mind and soul. It wanted to speak to him, she said – claimed the spirit would only commune with him now. That… He had few words to describe the sheer _terror_ this revelation spawned in him.

He remembered, back when he first came to the Institute, how the being hard warped his own perception, and _perverted_ his own instincts into that of a killer. He remembered speaking to Soraka one moment, only to stare at a gaping, _weeping_ wound on her neck the next – a wound so easy to inflict it seemed almost laughable. He remembered seeing the hollowed out wounds where the nurse's eyes were, and the way bone pierced and protruded from the flesh of her now shattered neck. He remembered how the Summoners' jugulars dangled against their chests, ripped from their flesh with a simple snatch akin to a serpent's strike…

…and then he remembered how their visages returned to normal with a mere blink.

It had seemed… so frighteningly _easy_. It was thought a part of him, back then, had developed this instinctive _need_ to act on the visions, to lash out and make sure _nobody_ around him could cause him any pain. The deaths would have been quick as well – or so he thought. In the whirlwind of bloodlust and malice he'd experienced then he couldn't be sure what he could recall with accuracy. Torn throats, snapped necks, everything just… _made sense_ at the time. Knowledge he was certain was not his own had flooded him – what angle a neck had to be twisted in, and what amount of pressure you had to twist with, and how gratuitously said pressure should be applied. He could easily pick out soft, tender flesh in their necks, easy for his newly-acquired talons to rip into and lacerate something far too vital to be healed properly in the panic his actions would cause.

For but a brief, _brief_ moment, his mind had gone from that of an outlaw to that of a psychopath, a remorseless killing machine bent on survival in the bloodiest, most brutal manner – all because of one vengeful spirit.

And now, said spirit wanted to speak to _him_.

That concept, that _idea_, was… more than just a little unnerving, in his own honest opinion. Going by what Jax had told him, the spirit seemed downright _crazed_ for violence and bloodshed. Granted, he'd already fought the thing off once before – it had been a painful, almost alien experience, fighting for control of his mind and body. He was truly unsure of how he had managed it – he wasn't a sorcerer, after all, and the sharpest thing he'd held in his life was a small dagger he'd robbed off an assailing bandit – and even that had been in his hand for _seconds_ before finding a new sheathe in said bandit's ribcage. No, Garret Hillock wasn't a fighter, or an assassin, or a mage. He was just a scholar – which made it all the more confusing as to how he had fought off a foreign spirit that had managed to take _immediate_ control.

Once again, the tome before him was closed with a flick of his hand and pushed along to the pile of books and scrolls beside him. While he had been lucky enough to regain himself after the first incident with the spirit, Garret was by _no_ account foolish enough to believe in the certainty of it happening again. He _was_ certain that he would fight every bit as hard as he did while inside that ruin, but _now_, nearly a week after the incident – nearly a week after the spirit's own _awakening_ and rise from dormancy – Garret was willing to wager that the entity was much, _much_ stronger than it was after the blade had shattered; its conversation with the Judicator, and its _rage_ at her words and its _strength _– enough to _shift_ a barrier of pure holy power – proved as much.

So caught up in his quest for answers was he, that he did not even notice he was no longer alone.

In Garret's single-minded focus on obtaining information from the tomes before him, he barely felt the floor beneath him shudder and tremble at the giant being's measured approach. He did not notice the colossal shadow looming over him, or the sound of a solid staff tapping against the floor behind him. It was, in a way, one of Garret's greater flaws; the mind of a scholar was one more fixated on knowledge than anything else – danger included, unfortunately.

Fortunately for him, though, the figure was anything but malicious.

"_You will not find the answers there,_" the giant spoke, with a voice soft, yet almost _ethereal_.

Garret, caught up in his quest for knowledge and answers, had barely realized the giant being had snuck up on him – with a jerk that could only be likened to a spasm born from the most _immediate_ fright, the young man fell to the side, toppling out his chair and sending several books flying back over the table. Several loud _snaps_ and _cracks_ signalled the jutting bronze shards on his demonic arm breaking under his body weight, and yet not even that could prevent him from outright_ scuttling_ away from the speaker in a bid to regain his footing.

Only when he was several feet away from the impostor, did he stop and gaze in the direction of the voice, with his fatigued frame shaking slightly from the adrenaline, and a wariness to match the _weariness_ in his eyes. And yet, he was greeted not by an expression of malice or threat, but rather one of merriment, of _amusement_. It was a soft chuckle, sporting the same powerful yet _hollow_, echoing sound of the voice that had spoken, and with an audible gulp, the young scholar found himself looking _up_ slightly to gaze his visitor in the eye.

Had it not emitted that chuckle, it would have seemed ominous, at first glance; patches of dark fur were neatly flattened amidst panels of lavish gold and ornate crystalwork, decorated here and there with the occasional strip of bandages and the like. An almost solid cowl decorated the being's jackal-like face, with two pointed, canine ears a deep, bright gold complimenting the ethereal blue eyes rather well. The Jackal-Man had a look in his blazing eyes, one of slight intrigue, and his grip on the large, cane-like weapon in his hand – a _was_, the knowledge came to him, unbidden – was almost casual.

"_It was not my intention to frighten,_" the Jackal-Man spoke, nodding towards Garret in a respectful manner. "_My years at the Institute have led to me believing that most are more… aware, of their surroundings. My apologies,_" he said sincerely. "_You must be Garret… The Starchild told me of you._"

It took him but a moment longer to recover – with a heartbeat still erratic, he returned the gesture, bowing as low as his fear and caution would allow him. "I… I am. Pardon the intrusion, sir – I was not made aware of any visiting hours or the like. I… I tried knocking, but the doors just… creaked open, of their own accord," he said softly, taking another seat – this time a few feet away from the titanic Jackal-Man. "I am sorry if I have been trespassing."

The Jackal-Man merely hummed, resting a hand on the backrest of the chair before him – a backrest that, despite being nearly as tall as a young man, merely reached his midsection. "_You have nothing to apologise for, Garret. If anything, it is quite refreshing to see someone read to find answers instead of laying question after curious question onto me,_" he said, almost casually, his azure eyes never once leaving the seated ex-deserter. "_I am Nasus,_" he introduced himself cordially, "_and I am the Curator of this library._"

Garret nodded slowly, processing the information. Slowly but surely, he let his guard down – Soraka had nothing but praise and kind words regarding the Curator, so he reckoned it would be nothing less than an affront to such a being to act as though he were standing in the presence of a common thug. "I… I beg pardon, for my reaction, I didn't exactly… see you coming, sir," he said calmly, reclining back into his seat as the small burst of adrenaline faded away. "I was so caught up in those books I wasn't paying attention."

"_That much was obvious the moment I stepped through the doors,_" the Curator nodded, as casually as his giant, abhuman figure would allow it. "_But I digress; this library is one of the few places where you can afford to act in such a manner. Many Champions of the Institute come here in search of answers or solitude, or even both at times. There are three here as we speak, at that,_" he said, nodding again. His grip on the cane – _was_, the knowledge assailed Garret's mind again – slackened slightly. "_As such, there are… few places in the Institute as safe as here,_" he trailed off, idly gazing at the array of tomes on the table. "_Although… I would assume such is not the kind of safety you seek, is it, Garret?_"

The former deserter stiffened slightly, uncomfortable at the prospect of being read so easily. "I did not… How did you…?"

"_I have lived,_" Nasus interrupted him, calmly and patiently, "_for eons on end. I was… a protector, of your kind, when you were but the spark of an idea on the fabric of creation. I have walked amongst mortals so long I have no recollection of years prior, and in that time I have learned much – about human nature, and human minds, and human hearts…_" He said, nodding once more, before pulling the chair back and ever-gently seating himself. "_You may hide your arm, Garret, but you are nowhere near as skilled as you believe yourself to be when it comes to hiding your heart. Your fear, before me, is as tangible as the clothing you wear, and the wood and paper before us. And yet…_" At these words, the canine giant's eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head. "_The fear you feel is not something you need be ashamed of, Garret. I have heard of what ails you – I have heard of the spirit that assails your mind. You should know: greater men than you have broken at lesser threats._"

Garret, much to his own ire, still found himself doubtful. "I… Make no mistake, Curator, your words are greatly appreciated, but…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "This spirit… I've seen what defines it. I've seen what it lives for, what it _yearns_ for… And what I saw…" he frowned. "I've lived in many places, Curator. From the dark alleys in Bilgewater to the run-down slums of Noxus, I've seen many of the different faces violence wears. But this spirit… I've never seen, or _felt_, anything so_ enamoured _with the idea of bloodshed and combat and, and _death_. For those brief moments, in that ruin… When it took over…" He repressed a shudder as he spoke. "It saw Jax, and the Ranger, Quinn, and… literally, the first thing it thought – the first thing _I_ thought – was how to _kill_ them," he said, his voice dying down to a whisper as he finished. "It already managed to take control once, Curator. I… I dread what would happen if it manages to do so again. What if… What if it finds a way to lock me away, should I speak to it? What if it somehow subjugates me?"

Nasus remained silent for several moments, his azure glowing eyes never leaving the man before him. "_It is true, that such a being would inspire fear, and worry, in one such as yourself,_" he said finally. "_You must, however, take heed not to downplay your own ability, Garret. The Starchild approached me not too long ago – I learned much of you from her, and her amiable opinion of you. She saw inside you, as I do now, and she has seen the exact same things I have,_" he said with a slight smile. "_As dire as you believe your situation to be, Garret, you forget: You have already bested this being once. Despite beak weak, and barely conscious, you fought – and with that simple action, you bested a being capable of… most macabre ability. It would seem yours is a will greater than you believe it to be – and much, much greater than the fiend that cowers in your arm._"

Garret glanced down at the multitude of tomes before him, processing the Curator's words. "I try to tell myself that, Curator. Truly, I do. I simply cannot fathom…" He started, his tone almost _frustrated_, but it died out, as the scholar heaved an exhausted sigh. "When it thought of attacking Jax, and the Ranger… I saw its thoughts. I told myself I could not allow it, _would_ not allow it. When I fought back… I focused on nothing else but their faces. I ignored _everything_ but them – I shook off the spirit's words and questions, closed myself off from its temptations and offers, but now… Now it wants to _speak_, Curator – to _me_. And I fear that in that briefest of time, when I bore witness to its mind… it may have borne witness to mine as well. How… How do I defend my spirit against something that knows me as well as I know myself?"

The Curator seemed to ponder Garret's words – as he sat and stared, and those azure eyes flared with ancient might, Garret could see the ascended hero of Shurima picking his words apart piece by piece. Finally, though, he nodded, almost sternly, and the gold-clad giant rose from his seat. "_It is said,_" he started, his voice several octaves softer, _gentler_ than before, "_that fear and courage are but two sides of the same coin, Garret, and as such, either side has many different engravings. There is more to 'strength' than spellcraft and arms mastery – there is a much deeper strength that governs both – a strength found not in physique and aptitude, nor skill and knowledge. This strength lies in man's very core, Garret – it is the strength of _spirit," he spoke, shifting the old chair back into its previous place. "_I cannot lay claim to know your mind, Garret. But the Starchild has told me of your spirit. She has told me of your struggles, and your strife, and yet… Here you sit,_" He said with finality, as if making a point. "_Am I to believe one who has fought so hard, and so long, fears one loathsome spirit?_"

Garret remained silent once more, a grim mask of contemplation on his face. On one hand, the Curator had confirmed that his fear posed a great and monumental obstacle in his path – and he could barely disagree; in a way, Garret Hillock was a coward by nature, fitting many different descriptions of the word. On the other hand, though, the Curator had spoken words that had reinforced his will to keep the spirit at bay, regardless of his own fear and insecurity. Nasus had spoken of _spirit_, the _one_ thing that had kept him going through pain and agony and loss over thirteen long years, and the _one_ thing of his that had not broken yet. Yes, it seemed… It seemed as though his courage and his fear would go hand-in-hand. "What… If I might ask, Curator… What do you believe?"

The Curator of the Sands, mighty ascended hero of the desert of Shurima, merely uttered a low, amused hum before replying. "_I believe,_" he spoke, with a voice almost _knowing_, "_that despite the hesitation that remains… You have already found your answer. Now, Garret… Whatever happens now rests entirely in your hands,_" he said, with a single, courteous nod as he turned around and made his way back into the depths of the Institute's great library. Abruptly, though, the gold-clad giant halted, and turned to face the scholar one last time. "_I will, however, leave you with this parting thought,_" he said kindly. "_While it is true that the spirit in your arm might be stronger than it was in the ruin, just keep in mind, Garret: So are you._"

And with those words, the jackal-faced hero of Shurima disappeared into the shadows cast by the towering bookcases, likely off to go aid other visitors in their search… regardless of whether what they sought could be found in the library at all.

Garret sat for a while, contemplating what he had said, and what he had _heard_. Gently, he brushed the dark traveling cloak aside and, with practiced caution, raised the twisted red shape of his arm up. Golden chains clinked and clanked as the limb came into view, the dim lighting of the floating candles playing off blackish-crimson skin and seemingly wrapping around the layered links. For the first time, Garret _examined_ his arm, gazed at it with more than simple apprehensive fear and loathing. It looked no different than it did when he had first woken up – the steely shards still protruded from the back of his fore-and-upper arms and the four fingered hand hovered idly in the air. Only _now_ did the former deserter notice that the hand's ring finger – or what _could_ pass as a ring finger – seemed slightly thicker than the other three digits. Idly he brought his other hand – his _human_ hand – around and carefully pressed his fingers to the darkened flesh of the mutated limb.

_Warm._

The limb was unusually warm – it wasn't the kind you'd normally find in such a limb either. It was a _flaring_ heat, a pulsating wave that travelled up and down the twisted musculature, dancing between the ends of the shards embedded into it. It was an _alien_ feeling, something he wasn't quite sure he knew how to explain – but it mattered little. Somehow, despite feeling apprehensive and cautious, he had already decided what needed to be done. In a way, he'd known all along – the Curator's good-hearted reassurance merely anchored that decision, and moulded it into an _action_.

With a soft huff, Garret stood, pushing the chair he had been sitting on back into its original place. With a resolute expression he began scooping the various books and tomes before him, intent on returning them to their places in the various shelves and chests he took them from. He wasn't foolish enough to believe this little… 'meeting' would be a short affair. There were preparations to be made, after all – Summoners to rally, precautions to take, and all that. Absentmindedly he wondered if the Judicator would be present at all, but going by the rather… _scathing_ look Councillor Kolminye had on her face after his judgement, he highly doubted it.

Thus, with a final, determined sigh, Garret disappeared into the dark shadows of the library's depths.

* * *

><p>"So, let me get this straight: you fucked up royally?"<p>

Once more, the Judicator effortlessly repressed an almost _tortured_ sigh. "No, Jax," she said in a controlled manner, maintaining the same crisp air of professionalism and stoicism she was known for during such situations. "While the situation did indeed take a rather detrimental turn, I am entirely certain that my discussion with the spirit would have ended the same way regardless of what I said or how I acted." Her mask wasn't fraying at all. Really, it wasn't.

"That's not what Ol' Vess tells me," Jax said with an almost melancholic shrug as he reclined back into his seat and propped his feet up on Kayle's desk, completely ignoring the slight glare the angelic woman shot him in response. "Normally when someone sets out to do something they're ordered to do," he said with a raised finger, as though _lecturing _her – the audacity! – about her actions, "and end up achieving the exact opposite effect… Yeah, that's called 'fucking up royally' – not 'a rather detrimental turn'."

Kayle didn't dignify Jax's poor imitation of her voice with a response, nor did she rise to his attempts to anger her. This was Jax, after all – his skill with weaponry was matched only by the amount of respect he refused to give, to _anyone_ or _anything_. Chiding him on that matter would have as much effect as Morgana's taunts would have on _her_, Kayle thought idly. Instead she merely crossed her arms and met his gaze. "Whatever your opinion on the events that occurred, it matters little now. I've told you what you wanted to hear-"

"And depressed the hell out of me at that," Jax interrupted.

"- and cannot see how further argument or debate will contribute to a solution to Garret's dilemma," she continued, unperturbed by Jax's interruption. "What happens now is between Garret and the spirit in his arm-"

"No thanks to you," Jax interrupted again.

"- and is something only he can decide," She continued, once more ignoring the interruption. "Although, pray tell, Grandmaster: Why so curious about this matter?" She inquired. "The only other people you interact with in such a… _positive_ manner are Gragas and High Councillor Kolminye, and your… 'friendships' with both parties started with rather heated fights." It was true – many champions had referred to Jax as a type of hermit, a skilled yet reclusive person who only ever interacted with the outside world when necessary (or thirsty, or just spoiling for a good fight). He had few allies, fewer _friends_ and surprisingly, even _fewer_ enemies – a fact that was rather shocking, given the Grandmaster's personality. And yet, here he stood, inquiring about the health and mental state of a person he had known hardly a week – and the two of them hadn't even come to blows yet.

"Well considering the fact that the bitch in his arm tried to, y'know, _kill_ me and all that," Jax snipped, shrugging as if to emphasize the sarcasm, "I'd say I have a right to know, don't I? 'Sides, Garret's chilled. None of that 'allegiance' bullshit holding him down – it makes him quite good company when the grog starts flowing." Another shrug. "He's a smart one, very world-aware and savvy. True I haven't bashed him in the face with my lamppost yet, but hey – the way he is, I don't think that'll be necessary. It's good to have a buddy I don't have to hospitalize first. Very… _unique_ experience."

Kayle was certain most other champions of the Institute would, at that point, have described her face as 'deadpan'. Quickly, though, she blinked the cynicism and exasperation from her eyes before the Grandmaster could notice it, and went back to arranging the various papers on her desk. "If anything, that is something I am quite grateful for. It's hard enough dealing with your rampant disregard for the Institute's rules and other champions' well-being. Fiora Laurent is still trying to press charges against you for damaging her property and grievously injuring her-"

"Why are you talking about her like she's actually a person?" Jax interrupted her _again_.

"-so it comes as no small consolation that you have no intent to further fuel the fires surrounding Garret's presence and condition," she once more pressed on, shuffling a few more papers together. "Although had you been anyone else, Grandmaster, and I would have thought your sudden interest in a complete stranger's well-being to be… rather suspicious."

"Say what?" Jax tilted his head slightly. "I've dragged him to the bar several times now, woman – I doubt he qualifies as a stranger. Hell, I know more about him than you do now, and _I_ wasn't even there for his Judgement."

"You weren't present for anyone's Judgement," the Judicator said rather listlessly. "Not even your own."

"Jealous?" the Grandmaster taunted.

"Are we finished here?" Kayle snapped, her frustration with the current situation finally shining through.

"Almost," the Grandmaster shrugged, standing up and stretching, making a massive show of the gesture and purposefully drawing it out, as only he would. "I've got something for your little case file," he said smugly, meeting her gaze again, "regarding that Laurent bitch. Now I don't know what kind of charges she's pressing, and, to be honest I don't really give a fuck. However I do like my money – a lot – and, well, I'm not willing to fork out gold to refurnish Princess Petulant's little abode," he said, procuring a small, folded paper from the inside of his dark attire. "See, that little spat we had in Demacia? The one that apparently wrecked her training room and kitchen? Yeah," he said, setting the paper down on Kayle's desk, "that was a duel, issued by the Brat Bitch herself, to be held inside her private training room. This here? This is my list of witnesses," he said, smugness literally dripping off every syllable that left his mouth. "Should get her off your back, huh?"

For but a moment, Kayle eyed the folded piece of paper. Last time Jax had tried to 'contribute' anything to her case files it had been nothing but a crudely-drawn image of him flipping her the bird. This time, however… Even in the dim lighting, her keen eyesight could see the indentations in the paper forming names, addresses and even places of employ. With a careful gesture she daintily took the paper, folding it open and giving the names a once over. "This… will do just that," she admitted, more to herself than anyone. It _was_ true that Fiora Laurent's incessant attempts at having Jax 'dealt with' were getting out of hand, but this… If the damage to her property was due to her own handiwork, _with_ her knowledge, then it might as well 'Case Closed'. "…My thanks, Grandmaster," Kayle nodded to herself.

"Don't mention it," Jax said with a shrug. "Literally, don't. If _it_ comes at me again I might just have to break something," he said flippantly, turning around to stroll to the door. He paused halfway there, though, idly resting his trusty lamppost on his shoulder as he turned to gaze back at her. "Oh, by the way," he said, just as casually as he had been all meeting long. "You might get called on again when Garret decides to go through with that whole 'spiritual meeting' thing."

"'_When_'?" Kayle asked, perturbed. "He has confirmed his willingness, then?"

"Nope," Jax said again, casual as can be. "But let's just say I've learned a bit about the kid. What can I say? Booze builds bonds. Anyhow, _if_ you're called again," his tone changed slightly – a hint of seriousness crept into his voice, "then I'd watch the attitude if I were you. Feel free to hate the spirit – I know _I_ do – but don't do it verbally. Garret's already scared shitless enough – he doesn't need you to make things worse. Well, worse than you've already made them," he said with yet another shrug. "Just a suggestion, though. Have a nice day, Kayle."

And with those words, and before the Judicator could even express her outrage at being _scolded_ – by _Jax_ of all people – the Grandmaster had vanished through the doorway, not even bothering to close it behind him. Even her boundaries didn't respond to his departure – Jax had just _disappeared_, it seemed, and on _such_ a childish note it beggared belief. Had she not known better she'd have decried the Grandmaster, and branded him a lowly coward. Knowing better, however, the Judicator decided to let the matter rest – for the moment, at least. She had _no_ doubt in her intention of… _addressing_ Jax on his tactless manner and brash attitude in the future. Arrogance was one thing – that level of disrespect was_ entirely_ another.

Nonetheless, a simple case of wanton disrespect was not cause for her to abandon her duties just yet. There were cases to be ordered, verdicts to be given, and several other staggeringly mundane things the Judicator had to get done before she had the luxury of waltzing about the Institute doling out lectures and punishments. Idly, she pulled a small dossier before her and started thumbing through the pages, a fountain pen clutched tightly between her gauntleted fingers.

She'd been at her business for a few moments when her boundaries went off again. She'd left her door open, to signify she wasn't exactly busy with _crucial_ documents or evidence, and truth be told the entire debate-slash-meeting with Jax had left her more than a bit frustrated and agitated, despite her face not showing it. It was for this exact reason that she didn't pay much mind to her boundaries telling her that someone was leisurely strolling towards her office without a care in the world.

In her own opinion nobody could come close to increasing the frustration she felt now.

"It's open," she noted aloud absentmindedly when she saw the shadow at her door. She was in the middle of adding the names the Grandmaster had given her to the case file Fiora Laurent had tried repeatedly to set into action. "I will be with you momentarily," she said, as the sound of a pen's tip on paper signalled her finishing the third-to-last name. She shadow looming over her desk seemed to hover there for a bit before she heard one of the chairs before her desk being dragged out. Not a moment later the shadow shrunk, and she heard oak legs straining slightly under weight. With but the slightest hint of a nod she proceeded to finish the last two names, and upon finishing, she moved to place her pen down on her table, and looked up. "Now, how can I help…"

She trailed off then, upon seeing her visitor.

If there was ever something like a 'sick' grin, she was certain she was looking at it now. Dark hair framed a silver circlet and sickly pale skin, and even darker lips curled up into an almost sinister smile, and her blank eyes, encircled by patches of shadowy, near-decaying skin, twinkled with slight amusement.

Behind her, two mangled wings batted twice.

"Sister," the Fallen Angel greeted, in a sickly sweet yet _envenomed_ voice.

A single loud _crack_ signalled Kayle's pen cracking in her grip, confirming that, yes, her day _was_ about to get much worse…

* * *

><p>It had been a few hours since Jax had met with the Judicator when he leisurely strolled into the 'finest' bar near the Institute. Of course, the 'finest' part was contributed solely by the fact that several of the League's… less luxurious champions frequented it, the first of which had been Jax himself. Now, make no mistake, The Champ was not a person ignorant of luxury – not at all. It was merely that The Champ, in his own <em>humble<em> opinion, described himself as a man whose idea of 'luxury' was a lot less flamboyant, aristocratic and elitist.

Or at least, so he claimed.

And anyone who said otherwise often ended up arguing with the business end of his lamppost.

In truth, the 'finest bar' in question was little more than a rinky-dink, working-class bar located about half a mile outside the Institute's main gate. It had not the luxury of Demacia's taverns or the modernized interior of Piltover's pubs, but in the same vein it lacked the run-down appearance of Zaun's drinking spots or the general feeling of malice and life-threatening danger you'd find in almost every bar in Noxus. No, the 'finest bar' in question was decidedly average – and Jax, well, he found that to be quite homely.

And that, all things considered, made it perfect.

Now, The Champ had been frequenting this bar for quite a while – as such, he'd pretty much become accustomed to the way things seemed and worked. There had been nothing that could surprise the Grandmaster where 'his' favourite bar was concerned – he had happy hours, early opening times, League match spectating sessions and about ninety-nine percent of the bar's regulars all memorised by memory. So when the Grandmaster at Arms had strolled into 'his' bar only to see a sight he'd _never_ seen before, he had reason to be just a tad shocked.

Seeing Garret Hillock sitting at the bar, calmly sipping at a mug of grog wasn't an unusual sight per say. After all, the Grandmaster had made a point to drag the ex-convict there every night since the man had been let out of the infirmary – much to Soraka's (promptly ignored) ire and Vessaria Kolminye's (promptly ignored) exasperation. No, what was strange is the fact that Garret was actually here _before_ Jax – and that his mutated, crimson arm was uncovered for the world to see – hell, it's twisted fingers were even gripping the mug he was drinking from!

"Well, I'll be fucked," Jax said, strolling forwards and ignoring all the greetings, cheers and the occasional flirty comment thrown his way. As he reached the counter he gave Garret a hearty clap on the shoulder as he sat down. "This is new," he said, signalling for his usual order – an order the bartender complied to with a smile.

"Jax," Garret greeted with a smile and a nod. "Well, I figured for once I would pay heed to superstition. Frankly I have no idea what I'm hoping to find at the bottom of this mug, but… maybe it will become clear with a few more servings."

"Hah! That's the spirit," the Grandmaster said jovially, turning his gaze back on the bar's main area. "What superstition, though? If you're looking for something fancy like the 'meaning of life', I'll warn ya: you're gonna get right shitfaced before you find it. And even then, with tomorrow's hangover you won't remember jack."

Garret, for the first time since coming to the Institute, uttered a genuine laugh – albeit a short one. "No, I… I am not looking for anything so spectacular. A gain in courage, perhaps, or a loss of inhibition. Maybe both. Who knows?"

"'_In wine lies truth',_ eh?" Jax guessed, swivelling around on his stool. "Well, share! What truth have you found so far?"

"That spur-of-the moment decisions make a fool of me?" Garret guessed, with that slightly skew grin the Grandmaster had seen on his face from time to time. "Or at least, that is what I feel now that the whole star-struck mindset has left me."

"Eh, those kinds of choice make us all look like asses. Although you've got me curious, bud: Who managed to dazzle you so much?" Jax chuckled. "Was it that nurse who looked after you so nicely while you were bedridden?" He leered. "I can hook you up, y'know. If you're up for the whole 'dating a ninja' thing."

"Much as I apprecia-Wait, what?" Garret interrupted himself, his expression going from reluctant and exasperated to what Jax classed as a typical 'What the fuck'-face in an instant. "You mean that, er… that… the slightly indecent one?" He asked, earning a guffaw from Jax for his under-exaggeration. "She's a _ninja_?"

"One o' the best," Jax confirmed with a nod and a shrug. "She's part of the Institute's very own three-man gang, both on and off the Fields of Justice. Got a stick as long as my lamppost up her ass, though. Stoic, emotionless, proper, cold, despite the way she dresses for hospital duty. Nice bod, though. Makes up for her personality – or lack thereof. That, and the fact that she's a pretty remorseless killer."

"I…" Garret started, before sighing slightly, that same crooked grin on his face. "Well as far as radical topic swings go, this is one of the more extreme examples. From drinking motivation to a ninja's allure… I get the feeling spending time here won't be a waste," he said, taking another sip from his mug. "Although in response to your earlier question, I can confirm the motivation behind my rash, life-changing decision was not at all romantic. Rather some… profoundly wise words, that managed to motivate me."

"'Profoundly wise words', eh," Jax mirrored, cocking his head as though deep in thought. "Soraka, then? You an' her are hitting it off quite well, seriously speaking. And she's just _full_ of profoundly wise words. And profoundly _annoying_ lectures if you don't mind me saying."

Garret uttered a short laugh again, an almost alien sound, coming from him. "Isn't _anyone_ who lectures you profoundly annoying, Jax?" He asked rhetorically, grinning once more when The Champ merely shrugged at the observation. "No, no. I was… I visited the library this morning. I was hoping to find answers or some form of identification, really – _anything_ that could at least identify this… _thing_ that's hiding in my arm. I wanted answers, reassurance, _anything_, really. Well, I found reassurance, all right. Courage, as well. Although from a highly unlikely source."

"You met Nasus, then?" Jax chuckled. "I shoulda clicked immediately. Ol' Muttface is full of those randy-dandy philosophical revelations and stuff. So what did he tell you," he asked, "and what did what he told you make you do?"

Garret blinked, processing the question for a fraction of a moment before offering a slightly awkward smile. "Well, some words were exchanged, some observations were made, and…" He trailed off, seemingly pondering something. "Well, the end justifies the means, I reckon. I… A few hours ago, I spoke to High Councillor Kolminye. Later tonight, I… I'm going to go through with the ritual that will put me in contact with the spirit."

_Gragas, you owe me money,_ Jax thought, slightly grateful his metal mask hid his shit-eating grin. "That's the spirit, bud," he said in a motivating manner. "Quicker you kick that bitch to the curb, the better. How's it gonna go down? You know yet?"

"If you mean why they're doing it in the middle of the night, I have no idea," Garret said, his shoulders drooping slightly. "Although I _did_ sleep in a bit, so that should mitigate it somewhat. It's taking place in a different chamber too – someplace underground, if I'm not mistaken. The High Councillor will send someone to escort me there. Apparently the Summoners performing the ritual will be… slightly more professional, than the ones who handled my Judgement."

"I'd expect that," Jax conceded. "They ain't trying to figure out jack this time – now they're gonna be maintaining the link between you two, tryin' to make sure that bitch doesn't try to kill you."

"Are you trying to reassure me?" Garret asked worriedly. "Because… Well, I don't mean to sound ungrateful but it's failing slightly…"

"Relax, kiddo," Jax chuckled. "Honestly? I don't think it'll go that far. I paid the Judicator a little visit earlier, got her to tell me _exactly_ what your little tenant told her. I still think the bitch is murderous as all hell, and full of shit to boot, but I don't think she'll go as far as to try and kill you."

"Why is that?" Garret asked, emptying his mug with a final gulp and signalling a refill. "I mean, it tried to kill you, and Lady Quinn as well. I am but a scholar – and a cowardly one at that. If it is brave enough to try and attack _you_ of all people, in a battered up, malnourished body at that, why would it spare me?"

"I'unno," Jax shrugged. "Going by what the 'naughty little angel' said, your parasite seemed mighty pissed at the insinuation that she tried to kill you. Kayle claims it was all an act, but eh. That woman… She's not exactly open to different outcomes. Very black-and-white, that one."

"Hmm." Garret seemed to be deep in thought. "It's something to ponder," he admitted finally, "and frankly, something I would rather _not_ ponder – at least, until I can ascertain the spirit's intentions. Whether it speaks the truth or blatant lies, if I decide it's a threat I'll have the Summoners lock it away permanently… and I highly doubt the spirit would take kindly to that idea."

"Didn't take kindly to giving up your body either," Jax reminded him. "We all saw what happened then. True, you call yourself a coward, buddy, but with the way you fought that bitch back, you've got _some_ badass cred to your name," he said with a chuckle. "When's the ritual?"

"About three hours from now," came the reply. Garret had emptied half of his mug by now. "I will admit, I felt rather powerful after speaking to the Curator, but now… Now, with the ritual looming on the horizon, reality is starting to catch up. I'll still face this challenge head-on, but… the heart's starting to beat just a _bit_ faster, and the hollow pit in my stomach isn't growing any smaller."

"You clearly haven't had enough grog, then," Jax chirped and chuckled. "If that's why you came here, though, you're in the right place. You just need the right _stuff_," he said, motioning to the bartender. "Bring us your best stuff. The stronger, the better. And ice – _lots_ of ice." The bartender, a small, balding man with an unkempt moustache, smiled cheerfully and trotted into the storeroom. "The doses are gonna be smaller," Jax admitted, "but it'll be worth it. Another half an hour and you'll be riding lightning, bud."

"It's not _too_ strong, I hope?" Garret asked. "I mean, not to sound ungrateful and all but I highly doubt confronting a murder-obsessed spirit in an inebriated state is a wise idea."

"Confronting it when you're half-dead ain't so bright either," Jax shrugged. "You turned out fine nonetheless, no?"

For but a moment, Garret sat, jaw agape. A moment later it snapped shut, and formed his trademarked crooked grin. Be it inebriation or nonchalance, or the off chance that the events of the ruin had failed to rule him, Garret seemed to take little offense from the words. Instead, he merely uttered a short chuckle, just as the bartender came out of the store carrying something _decidedly_ not groggy at all. "Touché," he nodded to himself. "Touché. Who knows? Maybe it even makes the meeting easier."

"Aye!" Jax agreed as the high-quality liquor flowed into the glasses in small doses, their mass amplified by the ice. "You're even sharper with your tongue when you're drunk anyhow, so it's win-win. Drink up, I say. You're meeting up with Ol' Vess too, and she's a right bitch when she's tired. You're gonna need the boost," he said.

Garret, though, merely remained silent, smiling slightly. He sat idly for a moment, Jax noticed, swishing the amber alcohol around in the small glass he had been served. His eyes twinkled slightly, even in the dim lighting you'd usually find in a bar. The man seemed deep in reminiscence, somehow. After a moment, he noticed Jax's curious stare, and righted himself with a slight cough. "Pardon. I, uhm… Suffice it to say it's easy to lose yourself in your memories. It has been… some time, since I've been able to experience this… this kind of _peace_. An ironic thing to say, I know, considering what will happen soon, but…"

"Oy, no need to explain," Jax nodded sagely, turning his gaze back on the various patrons frequenting the metaphorical 'watering hole'. "And no need to worry, either. You'll be having a lot more of this peace while you're here. Make no mistake about that." With a final nod, he turned back to the bar, and scooped up the small glass of alcohol he'd been served. "So what are we drinking to, bud? Prosperity? Peace?" he asked. "Women? Eh?"

Garret laughed at the suggestion, that same alien sound he'd uttered a few times already. "I was inclined to say 'all of the above'," he digressed, "until you had to go and be… well, you. I suppose I should be used to it by now, though," he said in an almost conceding manner. He turned his gaze back on his glass. "I do not normally drink to things. However, if I must… I will drink to… a new beginning, hopefully."

"I heard that," Jax nodded, "and hell if it's not something worth drinking to, eh? To a new beginning, bud."

And with those words, they raised their glasses, and the amber-hued liquid held in them disappeared down their throats.

* * *

><p>Suffice it to say he had no idea what time it was when the elderly Summoner knocked on his door. The moon was already high, hiding amidst shadowed clouds, like a priceless jewel buried away beneath the rubble; a jewel man was only allowed to catch the most fleeting glimpses of. As things stood, Garret had to keep the Summoner waiting a bit. The white shirt he had been wearing had been tossed aside in the bathroom of the small abode the Institute offered him, traded for a navy-coloured one that smelled of lavender salts and new fabric, and decidedly <em>not<em> of expensive alcohol.

He'd been chewing on mint leaves ever since he'd left the bar. Jax had been correct when he said the whiskey would make him 'ride lightning' and all that, but the smell… Ye _gods_, the smell…

"You seem worried," the elderly Summoner intoned as they strolled through darkened halls. "And for once I dare say I don't need a mental link to determine that, young man – only a sense of smell."

"Is it… Is it that obvious, sir?" Garret grinned awkwardly. He suddenly missed his travelling cloak. At least _that_ was a piece of apparel he could wrap around himself and imagine himself disappearing into. "Er, I do so hate to disrespect, sir. The High Councillor is a woman of great pedigree, I'm assuming – I would think it would be nothing short of unacceptable to appear before her when I smell of alcohol and look like a thug."

The Summoner, confusingly, merely chuckled at the observation. "Ah, it's rare to see someone so courteous in this place. Most of our newer Champions eschew that approach entirely – especially that manic little girl, Jinx. Honestly," he shook his head. "A pity there's a good chance you might be leaving us soon – you'd have been a welcome breath of fresh air in the Institute."

"Loath as I am to disappoint, sir," Garret nodded, somewhat awkwardly, "I… I am not a fighter. I've stolen, yes, and lied and misled at times, but I… my first instinct is always to flee, sir. I have very, very little to contribute to this place."

"That is not what the Starchild believes, young man," the Summoner intoned with a wry smile. "Councillor Kolminye believes a likewise story. You seem to forget our great Institute houses _more_ than just fighters, mages and Summoners, Mister Hillock. Believe it or not, should you choose to stay, we have many, many uses for a man of your talents – _especially_ if the notes you had on your person when you were brought in is any indication."

"I… I do not understand, sir," Garret said, a perplexed expression on his face. "I am but a scholar. Granted, I have… a fair bit of knowledge when it comes to ancient languages and cultural analyses, but I fail to see how I can be of any assistance _there_ when you have beings like Curator in your service."

"You mistake wisdom for intellect, Mister Hillock," the Summoner chortled. "Nasus may be ancient, and an incredible source of knowledge on the past of Shurima and the hearts and souls of the human being, but he is not omniscient – and certainly not as well-versed in other subjects as some believe him to be." At these words he turned to look at Garret, a slight glint in his old, wizened eyes. "Your notes, however… They prove that your little hobby, your _passion_, might be worth more than a simple passing gaze from the Institute."

Any response Garret could have formed – be it confused, or bashful, or even hopeful – was cut short when they reached their destination, rather suddenly at that. It was as though the door just… _appeared_ in the walls next to them, the dark oak contrasting rather nicely against the clinical white hue of the walls. At first he was perplexed he had not noticed the door earlier – such a glaring spot of dark-on-light colouring should have stood out like a sore thumb. He turned a quizzical gaze towards the elderly Summoner, and the old man – as though having practiced the response for ages – merely shrugged and offered a wry grin and an offhanded muttering of "Magic?" before turning back to face the oaken door.

"You will notice," he said, a slight undertone of mirth in his voice, "that this is not our… 'esteemed' Reflection Chamber. No, Garret, I will be entirely honest with you – this room is much more secure, and much more secluded."

"As it should be," Garret agreed, though try as he may he couldn't keep that damn quiver out of his voice. "Given what I saw in that ruin, sir, I would have insisted on a secure location regardless."

"Ah yes, the pseudo-possession," the Summoner nodded. "A fine achievement on your part, driving the ghost back. Nonetheless, I assure you, Garret: you'll find nothing short of _absolute_ security when you pass through those doors. We have dealt with geists and spirits far more powerful than the one manifesting in your arm – we have specialists on hand to control the ebb and flow of your connected psyches, and a few more that can safely sever the connection should sufficient threat arise," he said complacently. "The Institute of War _is_ highly intrigued by the being in your arm, Mister Hillock – but your safety and wellbeing remains our first and most important priority."

"I… am grateful, sir," Garret said with a self-reassuring nod of his own. "Heh. A few years ago I would have laughed at the concept of… _this_ all happening."

"Fate has a habit of dealing rather _interesting_ cards to those who least expect it," the Summoner hummed in agreement. "And for once I am not referring to the Champion. Nonetheless," he said, shaking his head as the elderly were wont to do when they lost track. "I am afraid this is as far as I can go with you, Mister Hillock," the Summoner said, stroking the long gray beard that hung out from under the muted purple robes. "Independent as you may be, the matter that will go down behind these doors are… not quite relating to the Fields of Justice, is it?" He said with a wry smile as he turned to leave. "I wish you the best of luck, Mister Hillock," he bade farewell as he shuffled towards the shadows. "May you reach a conclusion you are content with."

Garret found himself at a loss for words. It wasn't a matter of being overly choked up on emotions, or perplexed to point of wordlessness. It was simply that somehow, some way, he couldn't think of anything to say to the wizened Summoner in response apart from a mumbled "Thank you" and another of his crooked smiles. The old man had ended their little conversation in such a way that made the finality of it absolute – the type of conversation you could only find when an elder passed advice down to a younger person. Idly, Garret watched as the Summoner's robes disappeared, blending seamlessly into the darkness of the semi-lit hallway. It had been… a fulfilling conversation, in all honesty. It had successfully managed to pull his mind away from the ominous occurrence it would soon bear witness to.

Stalling, however, would mean very little. Shaking any stray thoughts from his mind, he reached out, and gripped the glistening doorknob before him.

_Well,_ he thought, _now or never_.

* * *

><p>The hallway he had entered after stepping past the threshold was long and rather dark – but he placated himself in a way he had grown accustomed to over the years, assuring himself that this was just another dark corridor, just like any other he encountered during his years as a fugitive. This one was even less of a bother – it lacked the biting cold of the Freljord or the scorching heat of Shurima, and the craftsmanship behind it – at least, that which he could see – painted a very different picture from what he was used to.<p>

Step by cautious step, Garret kept his mind busy as he strode towards the ever-growing 'light at the end of the corridor'. The Institute, it seemed, rather adored their clichés. Not that it was a bad thing – if anything it was a welcome change of pace from the usual winding, rocky pathways he found whenever he'd go traipsing around some ruin in search of the next of hieroglyphs he could try and translate.

Finally, though, he was within stepping distance of the doorway leading to the ritual area. He paused a moment, revelling at the feeling of the darkness obscuring his features – and then he recalled it was highly likely that these Summoners knew he was there already. So with a final deep breath, he closed his eyes and stepped into the light.

It was… much different from the Reflection Chamber.

It lacked the intricate detail of the murals etched into the walls, instead opting for a bleak, dark and gravelly texture, more than likely one of the more resilient types of stone. At first he would have ventured a guess and settled on granite, only the walls were naturally much darker than the stone in question. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, though. He tended to do that a lot – whenever stress or anxiety kicked in he put his powers of observation to use, trying to hone it and focus on something other than what was causing him pressure. This, of course, was not a time for such things.

"You are the first," he heard High Councillor Kolminye's voice drift from the shadows, "to find one of these rooms so fascinating, Garret. If I hadn't known any better I'd say it seemed as though you _like_ it here."

"Well, I… I have spent nights in worse places," Garret admitted with a shrug. "Apologies for letting my mind wander, it is a… Well, old habits die hard, and the oldest ones are damn near immortal," he conceded, folding his hands behind his back. He noticed something in the middle of the room – a sort of half-chair, half-bed _thing_ carved of marble – what was it with this place and their fancy marble furniture? – with several runic sigils and glyphs carved into its surface. "And I have slept on much worse textures too, I must admit."

He heard the High Councillor hum amusedly then, and alongside the sounds echoing off the walls, she stepped forth from the shadows. "It is only temporary, Garret," she said, in a half placating manner. "It's actually much more bearable than it looks. Some of the runes we've carved onto it are there to… _lessen_ the discomfort of such a hard surface."

"I… I assume this is where the bulk of my little meeting with my tenant will take place?" Garret ventured, eyeing the deck-chair like surface warily. "I do not have to strip, do I? That looks… rather chilly."

The High Councillor merely uttered a short laugh, raising a hand. "Oh no, it is nothing so complex. You will be… _dormant_ during the process, in any case. Your body will be restrained by some of the Summoners I've brought here –" and as if on cue, several Summoners clad in dark robes and fabric masks stepped forth from the darkness as well – "and your mind will be monitored for any… irregular activity. We will not know for certain what transpires between you and your visitor, Garret, but we will know _immediately_ if something goes awry. All we ask is complete honesty on your part after the meeting, Garret. Understand, this spirit has a very unique set of talents – a very _dangerous_ set of talents. If there is even the slightest chance it may act to your detriment in the future, well… a permanent solution will have to be sought."

"I understand completely, High Councillor," Garret nodded, answering without hesitation. He had spent all day building himself up for this, after all. The coward in him still appealed to the rationalist in him, and the tag-team duo implored him to say "To hell with it" and have the spirit suppressed permanently, no questions or fuss necessary. But he was not the only one with a stake in this – the Institute of War wanted to know more about this being, this _entity_ who could bend blood to its will, and weaponise it. They offered him safety, absolution, food and shelter, and even tended to his wounds – to have the spirit locked away now, without a second thought… it would be akin to spitting in their faces.

And Garret refused to be that kind of person.

"_While it is true that the spirit in your arm might be stronger than it was in the ruin, just keep in mind, Garret: So are you._"

The Curator's words stuck with him, in some weird, twisted way. Maybe the alcohol amplified the effects they had on him, or maybe – for once in his life – he was actually taking the courageous route instead of the cowardly one. He didn't ponder what brought it on – here, now, as he stood before the Summoners and the altar that would put him in contact with the spirit that had caused him so much fear, that _still_ caused him so much fear… Be it foolishness or bravery, running away was the last thing on his mind.

Idly, he glanced down at his exposed mutated arm. "I assume," he guessed aloud, "that the chain inhibiting the spirit will be removed?"

"Indeed," the High Councillor responded. "We need as little external factors mitigating your interaction with the spirit as possible. The chain is one of those factors – we suspect it is the reason why the being's voice sounded so broken and horrid when it spoke to the Judicator. My specialists tell me that anything that can distort the spirit in the eyes of the visitor… may just distort the visitor in the eyes of the spirit. That is a risk we cannot take. We need all channels between the two of you clear. Only then can we learn as much as possible about it."

As if rising to some form of unspoken challenge, Garret's arm pulsed. The searing red light lit up underneath the dark skin, highlighting the musculature beneath. It was a gesture that caught the attention of everyone in the room, an affirmation of presence despite the inhibition – and the first such signal since Garret's time in the Reflection Chamber six days prior. "Well, someone seems rather happy with the current state of affairs," the High Councillor noted dryly. "Shall we begin, Garret? Or are there some more measures you wish to see put in place?"

"None, m'lady," Garret nodded resolutely. "I have… the utmost trust in your abilities." He strolled forwards, nodding courteously to the two Summoners who shifted to the side to allow him access to the altar. They returned the gesture, albeit stiffly and stoically, but it was a good sign nonetheless – at least in Garret's eyes. He refused to idle or pause or hesitate when he stopped before the altar – he shut any negative thoughts out of his mind, as well as he could, and swivelled on his heel before sitting down on the predictably cold marble surface. He took a deep breath, just one, before shifting himself back and laying down on the runic display.

Two Summoners surged forward, gently easing his arm out into an extended position, before their gloved fingers deftly and professionally went to work on the suppression chains. Had the golden links not clinked and clanked against each other and sent soundwaves echoing off the walls, Garret was certain the silence would have been deafening. The worst part was the fact that the arm itself was completely _dead_ – he'd practiced its dexterity a bit today but he felt _nothing_. He barely even knew whether the chain was off or not – and, despite chiding himself about it, he opted not to look and find out.

Then it happened.

He couldn't rightly phrase it. All his life he had studied linguistics and prose and not a single word could describe the sudden feeling of _warmth_ that flooded his mind. It was somewhat pleasant, he grudgingly admitted – it wasn't the searing kind of heat like a knife wound or a mind-affecting spell. It was… almost comforting, in a way. He frowned slightly. How… utterly unlike the spirit of death and ruin he'd suspected it to be. It could always have been part of an elaborate scheme, he reasoned – something to get him to lower his guard. In a way, it was futile – these Summoners seemed professional. The being could fool him, maybe, but not these elite mages.

"Are you ready, Garret?" He heard the High Councillor ask. Hesitantly, he moved his now free arm around a bit before setting it down next to him. He had meant it when he said he trusted the Summoners completely – a part of him chided himself for such a foolish gesture; a war raged between his gratitude for salvation and the paranoia spawned over thirteen long years. But he refused to let it affect him.

That which was dark within him would _not_ define him.

"I am ready," he breathed.

The High Councillor nodded stiffly. She raised her own gloved hands and motioned to the other Summoners, and in _perfect_ unison an absolutely _brilliant_ chant blasted into the darkness of the room. The runes beneath his body lit up, an eerie green seeming out of place on the black finish, and Garret felt his body lighten all of a sudden. It felt… as though all of his earthly troubles and restraints just _melted_ away. The darkness around him cracked, and rays of red belted his vision from all angles. The warmth that permeated his mind, senseless as it sounded, _spread_. It travelled down his spine, surged out across his ribs and bubbled in his chest, and travelled even further, leaving a tingling sensation along his arms and legs.

Then the darkness _exploded_.

It was simultaneously a tremendous _crash_ and a near-deafening _boom_ – the darkness around him literally _shattered_ as a hazy crimson mist flooded his sight. The ritual chamber fell apart and floated away at an alarming pace, and despite Garret being _sure_ he was laying down barely seconds prior, he found himself on his feet, hovering in a red oblivion – he couldn't even make out the floor he was standing on. A void, by any other name – no shape, no form, no architecture or geometry at all. Just blood-red smoke as far as the eye could see.

Then he felt a hand gingerly sliding along his cheek, almost _caressingly, _and amidst the clouds of crimson, and ethereal, feminine voice drifted out.

"_You kept me waiting… my host…"_

* * *

><p>It was done. The connection had been established, the boundaries had been set, and going by the feedback from her elite Summoners, contact had successfully been made. Vessaria Kolminye released a bated breath she hadn't even noticed she had drawn – situations like these may have differed in victim, assailant, and mental stability, but they were always precarious; this one was no different. She lowered her hands and stepped back, no longer required to conduct the orchestra of magics that would keep Garret and his visitor chained to his own mindscape. Her amber eyes remained transfixed on his mutated limb, though – the bronze-like shards were glowing as if superheated, and the limb itself was illuminated; the crimson light no longer 'pulsed' – it <em>shone<em>, displaying all those twisted muscles in all their abhuman glory.

Behind her, she heard the telling sound of steel scraping on steel. She did not need to look back to see the Judicator emerging from the shadows. The beating of wings, the sound of shifting armour and sounds of muffled breathing were enough to clue her in. "The connection is successful, then?" She heard the angelic woman ask behind her. "High Councillor, I _must _emphasise the risk you are undertaking here. The danger that man is in –"

"Is a great deal lesser," Vessaria cut her off fluidly, "than the danger he would be in if we pushed the spirit into rebellion. It has taken more than this young man's arm, Judicator, you _know_ this. It is anchored to his being, to his heart, and spine, and _lungs_. No," she said with finality. "This is the safer approach. If we find out what it wants we can try to reason with it – and maybe shelter this young man from its wrath as well."

"If you insist, High Councillor," Kayle conceded, touching down on the cold floors and folding her wings behind her. "Do you truly believe he can best it a second time, though? The spirit seemed downright volatile when I spoke to it, and forgive me for stating such but Garret Hillock is not exactly someone open to violent or malicious suggestion. There's bound to be some kind of clash, High Councillor."

"Of course," Vessaria nodded, unblinking. "It is for that exact reason that we engineered this little meeting. We _need_ that clash to occur, Judicator – heated arguments and verbal battles tell us more than honeyed words and half-truths ever will."

"And you are certain Garret will be truthful about what the spirit tells him?" Kayle inquired.

"Yes. Garret has been nothing if not courteous and completely truthful about his life," Vessaria answered, her gaze still locked on Garret's prone form. "Should we suspect he is hiding something we can always prep the Reflection Chamber again, either way." Her eyes narrowed, and as if in response Garret's arm glowed just a _bit_ brighter, almost tauntingly.

"Until then," she said, almost wearily, "we wait… and see how this plays out."

* * *

><p>It had taken <em>every ounce<em> of his willpower not to flail backwards and desperately try to put _some_ modicum of distance between himself and… _whatever_ had just touched him. A sharp intake of breath, and shut eyes were the only signs of the considerable fright he had experienced – his instincts, however, were still not complacent. They _howled_ at him to back away, to turn tail and run and shut out every external influence that would assail him. They tugged at his legs and squeezed at his heart, constricted his lungs and swung his mind into disarray – but for once, he stood fast.

Running would not save him now.

Cowardice would accomplish _nothing_.

"_Indeed it would not,_" the voice cooed, as if _aware_ of what he had thought. "_It is just us here, host… You cannot run from me… and I cannot run from you._"

Garret frowned. Part of him didn't trust his voice just yet – the fear that was sending the blood racing through his veins undoubtedly left its own mark on his speech, a quiver or a crack or maybe both. And yet… he couldn't bring himself to care about that.

"W-What do you want?" He asked, his voice firm, yet volatile, as though threatening to crack under a complex syllable.

"_Oh, you know what I want, my host,_" the voice said, almost knowingly, and around them the mist began to _change_. Shades darkened and lightened and the very smoke drifted in patterns that formed shapes Garret would rather have forgotten. Around him, wars waged; the very earth beneath them split apart under wave upon wave of violence and people – ageless, faceless shapes formed by crimson smog – fought for causes they didn't believe in. But they _fought_, and they fought _well_. Garret frowned as he took in the sights – with the way the smoke portrayed their surroundings it seemed more like a work of art, a practiced theatrical of grace and poise, rather than the hideous terror such a scene would be in reality. "_Yes… You know exactly what I want, my host… Just as I know you are not likely to grant it._"

"War?" Garret ventured, tremors still plaguing his speech. "Is that what you want? Or is it something simpler? Combat? Battle? Is that what you want, spirit?"

"_No, my host…_" the response was… several octaves lower than before. "_No, I do not 'want' battle. I do not 'want' combat, my host…"_ And suddenly, two slanted, pure white eyes appeared before him. "_No… Battle… Combat… I do not simply 'want' them, host… I __**need**__ them!_"

There it was – instinctively Garret repressed a shudder at those words. Finally he saw what he had seen in that ruin. When the spirit had said that word – 'need' – the undertones of adoration and reverence were downright frightening. There was _excitement_ in the spirit's voice for that fraction of a second, excitement matched only by the sheer amount of _longing_ hidden beneath the emphasis. The spirit was dangerously close by now, he could tell – the slanted white eyes hovered inches from his own, and he could _hear_ someone breathing, laboured and shakily, as though the mere statement of this spirit's _need_ for violence excited it – _her _– into breathlessness.

Nonetheless, with a final, _quivering_ exhale, the breathing faded away, and the two eyes backed off, narrowing as they observed Garret for a reaction. "_Do you know,_" she started, softly, almost muttering, "_how long I have yearned for it, host? The sounds of steel on steel, the scent of sweat and struggle as two beings fight for dominance, for sport, for __**survival**__… The sight of determination, of enjoyment, of fear and dedication in the eyes of those who kill, and those who die… Do you know how my soul __**aches**__ to experience it all once more?_"

"I… I know all too well," Garret nodded, eyes narrowed and face steeled. "I experienced a fraction of it – when you tried to force me to _kill_ all those innocent people. Do you recall that, spirit? Do you remember how you took my body from me? How you tried to _murder_ those near me?"

The blank eyes widened slightly, and despite the lack of a face Garret noticed a modicum of surprise in those glowing orbs. "_I took what I thought to be a corpse,_" the spirit answered slowly. "_Your movements, your heart rate, your __**thoughts**__… So erratic were they that I presumed you to be in the throes of death – as you humans so often exhibit. When my smoke enveloped you, host… You were not long for this world. You did not need your body."_

"So you just helped yourself…" Garret noted, taking another step back. "Forgive me, but I find this all rather hard to believe. One moment you fill my mind with images of _massacre_ and the next, you are as cordial as can be. You _attack_ the person sent to question you and now, all of a sudden, you act as though you cannot even _comprehend_ just how malicious you've been since… since you tried to take over. I may be a coward," he said, the quiver finally leaving his voice, "and not at all the sharpest tool in the shed, but I am not so foolish as to believe this hollow story! I… I will not be manipulated. Not by you."

The blank white eyes merely stared, again slightly widened. They seemed to hover there, for a while – as though the spirit itself were considering his words. Finally, though, they closed, and a soft, short chuckle drifted through the smoke. "_I know…_" The spirit spoke, low and begrudging. "_I was… desperate, after you shattered my prison. For what seemed like an eternity, I knew only… this,_" she said, and the white eyes gazed at the crimson void around them. "_Every second of every minute of every hour of every day… Nothing but my own weapon surrounded me…_" The eyes then turned back, gazing into Garret's own. "_When I was freed… When I felt the world around me again… I lost myself. Nothing mattered to me but the taste of battle – not even your wellbeing. A near-corpse before me and two powerful figures not much further away… How could I resist, host?"_ The spirit asked, in an almost _strained_ manner. "_How could I resist that which my very soul thirsted for, when it was so __**basely **__offered to me?"_

The eyes surged forward a short distance – as though their owner had taken a single step towards Garret. The former deserter stood his ground, pondering the words that had been spoken. "Why, then?" He asked finally. "Why jeopardise your freedom by _attacking_ the first people you laid eyes on?"

"_Because I __**knew**__ nothing else at that moment!"_

The sudden volume of the spirit's voice should have caught him off guard – it really should have. But some part of him, some odd, _curious_ part of him discovered a rather intriguing, yet ominous fact: Garret was making _progress_. Socially Garret was not an ace – scarcely he could tell when someone was being honest, or deceitful. But that hollered proclamation, that _grudging_ statement… It told him he'd finally earned some semblance of honesty from his toxic tenant. "Explain," he muttered simply.

"_I have told you,"_ the spirit said, once more sounding out of breath. The eyes shifted ever closer to him. "_Battle is what I live for, host… It is all I know… And those two beings, they… they were so __**powerful**__…"_ The being seemed almost _enamoured_ as it spoke – as if the sheer prospect of facing down Jax and Quinn offered it a degree of excitement incomprehensible to normal people. "_Especially the alien one… Never have I felt, or sensed, a mortal such as he, but… His __**strength**__…" _The being seemed to shudder. "_Were they not warriors, host? Is a glorious death in the heat of battle not the greatest honour I can offer them?"_

He grimaced slight. That… was a truly, truly _skewed_ form of morality right there – and quite a frightening one at that. "And the hospital staff?" Garret questioned, unrelenting in his assault of inquiries. "The doctor you mangled, and the impulses you sent flying through my skull, urging me to maim them? Were they also strong, spirit? Did they also deserve a 'glorious death'? Or do you just get some sick satisfaction from beating down on the helpless?"

"_**No!**_" It was an almost _desperate_ exclamation, Garret grudgingly admitted. The eyes formed a frown now, as if insulted by the very nature of his question. Interestingly enough this time it was the spirit's turn to step back. The eyes drifted further away, and as he noticed what he could swear was a hint of _uncertainty_ in them, he silently marvelled at how a pair of featureless eyes could show such emotion. "_Never… Not ever those who cannot fight back, host… There is no merit, no joy, no __**feeling**__… I was…" _It took another step back, and the eyes darted from side to side, as though the being was shaking its head – in anger? Frustration? _Denial_, maybe? "_You… You are so set on believing in my malice… You will not believe otherwise…"_

"Try me," Garret said, and only just managed to keep the look of surprise off his face when he realized how _challenging _his voice sounded. _Gods above,_ he thought offhandedly, _I'm starting to sound like a Demacian…_ "It cannot possibly be any different than what you've told me already."

The eyes stopped, then, gazing at him in an almost contemplating manner, hovering there in the distance. "_There was… one with a stained heart, near you…_" it finally spoke, slow and cautious. "_One with strength, yet no want for battle – one who cared little for such things. A killer, host – a murderer stood near you. That __**accursed**__ chain… I could not see who, or what, or where, but I __**knew**__, host… They had a killer on hand, one with a heart so dark and broken they'd not think twice of ending you."_

Garret did his best to repress a tired sigh. "That's your answer?" He asked, his voice matted with disbelief and exasperation. "You tried to motivate me into killing hospital staff because there was supposedly a murderer amongst them?" He asked. For a moment he stood, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to formulate words. "Do you… Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds? These people, the Summoners, they are the prominent power in Valoran. I am rather certain they'd know if there was a killer amongst… amongst…" He trailed off, and his emerald eyes widened as delayed horror dawned on him.

'_She's a ninja?!'_

'_One o' the best. She's part of the Institute's very own three-man gang, both on and off the Fields of Justice.'_

'_That, and the fact that she's a pretty remorseless killer._'

"_Host…?"_ Garret only barely registered the spirit's voice, and slight undertone of concern it held. "_You seem haunted, host… What has dawned on you?"_

"…The nurse," he said, and cringed as he noticed that pesky quiver had returned to his voice, intent on plaguing him more than ever. "The nurse who was there… She is… She's a ninja," he said, sounding incapable of processing the fact. "An assassin…" He took a step back, then another. "But it makes no sense! She's on the Institute's payroll, so certainly she can't be…"

"_Her heart would not be dark,"_ the spirit interrupted him, and the eyes once more moved forwards, "_if those of her victims were as well. This is what I felt, host, and __**this**__ is what I wanted you to see! With a killer stalking you there was no safety – it spelt danger, for the both of us!_" Another step closer. "_I was inhibited, host – chained, shackled, __**imprisoned**__… I tried to aid you the only way I could."_

"By pushing me into a murderous frenzy?" Garret demanded suddenly, a hint of anger creeping into his shaking voice. "By having me kill _everyone_ in the room?"

"_By having you __**act**__,"_ the spirit corrected him, hovering a few feet from his person. "_By having you __**force**__ the murderer into revealing themselves, and __**ending**__ them!... Before they could end __**you**__."_

"You… You cannot claim to know her like that…" Gods above, he was faltering. He could notice – the weakness of his voice, the tremors coursing through his body… Garret was losing control of this debate, and _rapidly_ at that.

"_And you can, host?_" The spirit questioned, moving forward once more. "_I have seen glimpses of your mind. I have seen your trials, your mad dash across this land. I have seen you feeling, and __**surviving**__, for thirteen years, host! Have you come this far by trusting every killer you met?"_

He opened his mouth again, only to snap it shut again, utterly defeated – in that aspect, at least. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the two featureless globes before him. This spirit… was highly troubling. One moment it – _she_ - was erratic, ecstatic, and bloodthirsty, and the next, calm, controlled and almost as sharp-tongued as he was. Highly unstable, he noted worriedly, but so far, not entirely _malicious_. "What do you hope to achieve by doing this?" He asked finally. "Opening your mind to me, and digging into mine – what are you after?"

"_Understanding_, _host,"_ the spirit answered, quickly, _automatically_, as though _this_ was the one question it – _she –_ had hoped to hear, and answer. "_I… I am imprisoned here, host. I am imprisoned within __**you**__. My fate, my existence… It lies in your hands. It has… since you bested me in that ruin."_ The last part was spoken with more than a hint of bitterness. "_In life I was unchallenged, host. Unbeaten. Unstoppable, even. But that was in life, in the plane of flesh and bone. In those aspects you are weak, host. You are not a warrior, or a skilled murderer or an artist in the way of combat. You are normal. Average. I… I sought to exploit this when I saw you dying. A weak man weakened further by the loss of his lifeblood – the perfect vessel to let me __**live**__ again, to let me experience the __**thrill**__ and the __**ecstasy **__of unbridled battle. But I was foolish… I let my bloodlust and my excitement rule me, as I did in life… And they betrayed me once more."_

If it was understanding that this being sought, Garret considered, then she was going about it the right way. The longer he kept the conversation going, he realized, the more honest the spirit became, the more naturally and carelessly the being acted. Garret could make out hints of a personality in this spirit – he saw a being that seemed to revere combat as a way of life, a pursuit similar to how a normal person would classify _happiness_ and _peace_ in their lives. It was altogether frightening, that a being could be so _reverent _and _enamoured_ with bloodshed and battle… But yet…

Garret had yet to detect a lie.

"Why tell me all this?" Garret asked. "You and I are both aware that I am weak. Physically I'm worth less than a footman, spirit, so tell me: Why all the honesty? I… I had expected lies, deceit, I… I would have thought your hollow answers at first were mere cover-ups for something far more sinister, something more _manipulative_. Why? Why beg for me to understand you when it would be so much _easier_ for you to mislead me? You have glanced into my mind after all. What could make it easier?"

The spirit paused at these words. White eyes widened, narrowed, then widened again, before becoming oddly downcast. As if in synchronicity with the spirit's emotions, the crimson mist around them _darkened_ slightly. "_I… It would be futile, host,"_ the spirit admitted, lowly. "_No amount of manipulation in the world could help me. I am a warrior, host – an unmatched combatant… But that is all I am. I… I cannot best you. Not like this. I realized it, that day in the ruins. Despite your weakness, despite your wiry stature and despite your aversion to combat… As I am your better in many ways, host, so are you my better in others."_

"Wha… What do you mean, spirit?" Garret asked. Curiosity won over fear and wariness and he found himself taking a step closer towards the eyes, towards the spirit before him.

"_You are aware,"_ the spirit seemed to nod, going by how the eyes were moving up and down rapidly. "_You came here with the fact in your mind, disguised as courage and motivation. That day in the ruin… For all your weakness and fragility, you still bested me. You pushed me back, host – despite lacking a weapon, despite lacking a __**body**__… As savagely as I fought in life, you fought in spirit. You… You bested me, host. You established your might, your dominance… You became the warden and I, the prisoner."_ For but a moment, the spirit trailed off, hesitation dancing in those white eyes. "_Though you lack strength, and bravery, and magic and skill… You still have your will, host. You still have your spirit. And in those areas… In those aspects, host… I cannot defeat you."_

"Then why _me_, spirit?" Garret asked, his voice once again steady and his eyes sharpened. The more he spoke to this spirit the more confused he became. "Why insist on speaking to _me_? Why not the Judicator, why not the Summoners who have tried to contact you?"

"_**They**__ do not hold my fate in their hands…"_ The spirit said, and had Garret been any less careful he would have sworn he heard a hint of _glumness _in her voice. "_The angel is set in her ways. My very existence makes her loathe me – even a holiest oath would not make her see me as anything less than a threat. The others, the 'Summoners' as you've called them, they are the same. Some are intrigued, some are threatened, some are wary, but none of them will __**listen**__. You, host… You are the only one capable of understanding."_

"Understanding _what_, spirit?" Garret asked, his confusion finally mounting. "You've done nothing but confuse me so far, spirit. You… You've given me insight into you, and for that, I… I'm thankful. Your cooperation is… It's making this easier. But I am no closer to figuring out just _what_ I am supposed to understand."

"…_Hope, host…_" The spirit spoke after a while, its blank eyes downcast. "_You… You are the closest I have ever come to being __**free**__ of all this," _she spoke, eyes gazing at the crimson smog around them, "_and… it is likely you will be the closest I ever __**will**__ come to my freedom."_

Freedom… It all came down to that, didn't it… "Is that truly all you want, spirit?" Garret asked, and with another step he noticed he was standing right before the spirit's presence, if the closeness of the white eyes was any indication. It was quite worrying, being so close to an entity whose mood, whose very _personality_ could shift at the drop of the hat – especially when battle was mentioned. But… That one word…

_Freedom_.

Suddenly he understood what she meant… and suddenly he knew why she thought he'd be the only one who could.

"We… We are alike, in a way," he summarised, softly, his voice barely louder than the exhale he had spoken during. "Is this what you meant?" It all made sense, all of a sudden – one final puzzle piece to make the image whole, for him to see. They were two different beings, from two different times, of two different races and two different dispositions, and yet… There was a single, common denominator between them:

A yearning for _freedom_.

"_Yes, host,"_ the spirit answered, as though she had read his very mind. "_Sentenced to nothing but nothingness amongst the vapours of my weapons, with nothing to do, nobody to speak to or battle… Nothing but my own thoughts… I shall not hide my soul, host: Such a fate, as the one I have suffered… It terrifies me. It terrifies me more than even the concept of a world of pacifism, and peace…" _She paused then, pondering something for a moment. "_This is why I wished to speak with you personally. I… I am aware, that my disposition, and my inherent __**need**__ for violence would not sit well with you… But I clung to the hope, that I could convince you to aid me regardless."_

Garret finally broke eye contact with the spirit, gazing into the red smoke and his mind ever-intellectually processed the larger picture. With a grunt, he dropped to one knee, before sitting firmly on the 'ground' of the floorless void. With legs crossed and hands folded, he sat, thinking about the situation on hand. "I…" He began, only to pause. "Spirit, you have seen into my mind," he said finally, having found his voice. "You know I cannot, and _will_ not, in good conscience let you roam around attacking every combatant in sight. But…" He paused, considering what he was about to say. He was convinced he would be decrying himself as a complete and utter _fool_ had he even _entertained_ this train of thought at the beginning of this little meeting, but… Now, with the insight he had gained… Gods help him, he simply could not turn the other cheek. Not to _this_. "But I also know that _I_, in good conscience, cannot keep you cooped up in my arm. I… There was a time I would have sold my soul for freedom. To deny you that very same thing… Gods damn me, but I… I simply cannot do it."

Many times during his years on the run he'd tried to turn a blind eye to injustices and unfairness. Bless him, he tried his best – the few cases of success left him with more than a few sleepless nights as a result, _especially_ when he was hiding out in Noxus and Zaun. Mostly, however, he failed at keeping to himself – spectacularly at that. Damn Demacian blood, he'd tell himself. This… Warped as the concept may have been, and foolish as he may have seemed, to him this was another such case. Only this time he had the power to _do_ something about it.

"A compromise must be reached, then," Garret said with finality, nodding once. The white eyes before him drifted down, until he and the spirit were eye-to-eye. "Now I might not be a soldier, but I _am_ a scholar, and I like to believe I have the intellect to prove it. I _know_ your 'freedom' encompasses this body, _my_ body, spirit. And going by what I remember, and what I was _told_ about what happened in the ruin, you are more than capable of using it as if it were your own… _if_ you are in control. So tell me: What would your freedom encompass, spirit? What would satisfy you, as far as _freedom_ is concerned?"

"…_We are two minds, two souls, in one body,_" the spirit said slowly, and yet, it could not keep the slight quiver of excitement out of her voice. She seemed to be choosing her words wisely – careful not to let her hopes get the best of her. "_As you say, my freedom would encompass the use of your body, yes. But it is still __**your**__ body, host. You have proven yourself the stronger soul, and as such, dominance and absolute command are yours. Should I desire… animation, should I desire freedom, to move and see and speak and breath, I will try to let you know – both through mind and through spirit. And… And…" _She trailed off with a soft groan, eyes narrowing.

"Something the matter?" Garret ventured.

"_I was a warrior in life,"_ the spirit answered. "_I was undefeated, until my death. I… I am unused to yielding."_

"What does yielding have to do with anything?" Garret asked, his tone cautious – pride and honour meant a lot to warriors, from what he knew – he did not want to offend this spirit by questioning or downplaying hers.

"_Should you… Should you decide,"_ the spirit said, with an audible sigh, "_that it is acceptable to release me, we will… switch. Else, I… I will stand down."_

_Now_ it made sense. "I see…" Garret mused. "Well, even though I was a criminal, I'm not entirely unforgiving. It… Should I agree to this, it will be rare for me to actively deny you control. Freedom… is something nobody should be denied, after all. What would it be like, might I ask? To relinquish control? What will happen?"

"_I…_ _I do not know,"_ the spirit answered, somewhat tersely. "_I suspect it will be much like what happened in the ruin, only… much less mania on my part, and much less struggle and resistance on yours."_

"Less mania, you say," Garret responded, somewhat dryly. "Yes, that sounds agreeable. I suppose… I suppose the only way to know for certain would be to put this little theory to the test. I… I do not recommend doing so now, though. My body – _our_ body, should I agree – is surrounded by Elite Summoners, and the High Councillor herself. Somehow I doubt they would react… well, _calmly_ should I wake up and _you _are the present personality. You _did_ lash out at the Judicator, after all…"

"_She insulted my honour,"_ the spirit responded tersely. "_Her existence is grating…"_

Garret pondered exactly what the Judicator could have said to make the spirit despise her so, but decided it was best saved for later conversation. "I think I will reserve judgement," he said, shrugging. "I do believe, however, that we are straying off the topic. Outside this place, this little… mindscape, if I may call it so… I would be willing to offer you a bit of freedom. After all, it must have been… _ages_ since you've actually seen the world and all its wonders." He paused as the spirit hummed in agreement, and the eyes bobbed up and down again, a clear sign of a nod. "However," he said, rather sternly. "If I am going to trust you with my body I need to know that trust is not misplaced." At the spirit's rather… inquisitive look – _how in the burning hells did blank eyes show such emotion? _– he continued. "The Institute does not take kindly to conflict in its halls. I understand you have… a very healthy appreciation for combat and battle, but I cannot have you acting on that respect within the halls of the Institute – or any other halfway civilised place, for that matter."

"_You wish for me to stay my weapon, host?"_ The spirit asked, and Garret couldn't help but notice the slightly perturbed tone of her voice.

"I understand it is not a concept you are exactly comfortable with," Garret digressed, "however, I am not comfortable with the concept of sharing my body with you either. I am trying to reach a compromise here, spirit."

"_I… I understand,_" the spirit conceded, grudgingly. "_I do not __**wish **__to understand, but… I do."_

"Now I'm not completely heartless," Garret quickly spoke, trying to ease some of the negativity that had seeped into the spirit's demeanour. "I love studying to an unhealthy degree as well, and… well, I wouldn't exactly be content if someone were to restrain me from doing so. I do, however, happen to know that someone who truly _wants_ something will stop at nothing to find a way to _get_ it," he said, placing a palm on each knee. "Thus, I'm asking you now: What do we do about your love for combat? How do we scratch that itch without stepping on any toes?"

The spirit remained silent, for a worrying time. Its – _her_ – eyes danced from direction to direction, narrowing in thought and widening in realisation, only to narrow again in fervent disappointment. Garret himself waited patiently – partly because he had _no_ knowledge or experience as far as '_needs_' for combat went, and party because, well, this spirit had proved to be more than just a vengeful imprint of someone's soul. It – _she_ – had shown emotion, sense, self-control and even understanding at times. Now Garret was not someone savvy and experienced when it came to spirits and spectres, but at this part, grudgingly as it was he would admit he'd grown to see the spirit as a more… _sentient_ being during the conversation. She had honour and pride, and he would so hate to besmirch those.

Gods above. Barely a day ago he was _scared_ of this spirit. Now look at him – worrying about offending it – _her_ – as though she were actually a living person.

"_Is this world not rife with heartless scum, host?_" the spirit finally asked, eyes wide as though the greatest of ideas had just occurred to her. "_In life this land had no shortage of monsters that needed to be cut down. I am certain __**that**__ has not changed."_

"Absolutely not," Garret said, an exasperated frown on his face. "Vigilantism is considered a crime, even more so than desertion. I was just _absolved_ of my criminal charges, spirit, I am _not_ willing to go reclaiming them just so you can get your kicks."

The spirit recoiled slightly, eyes just a bit wide, before seemingly slumping down, deep in thought again. For but a moment Garret considered the chance that he may have been a tad too headstrong, especially considering the progress they had made during this meeting. However, the spirit seemed unperturbed by his response – if anything she seemed more put off by the fact that she couldn't even let loose on the criminals of Valoran. Nonetheless, he was certain the Institute didn't step in when charges of vigilantism were in motion. There was a vigilante in Demacia, after all, some shadowy-type of woman who hunted 'evil', and she was still facing minor persecution from Demacian officials despite being a Champion of the Institute.

And then it hit him.

And at the same time, the spirit before him locked eyes with him – and the excitement in those slanted white eyes told him she'd come to the _exact_ same conclusion.

"_Host,_" she started slowly. "_There is a solution. It's all around us,"_ she said excitedly.

And at that moment, the full realization of their solution came crashing down on Garret.

"I'll be damned… The Fields of Justice…"

* * *

><p>The Judicator was not expecting something miraculous when the ritual to put Garret Hillock in contact with the spirit in his arm commenced. She had already given him her honest opinion on the vile being, and offered him a few choice words of advice, at the cost of a small fraction of her credibility in the eyes of the High Councillors. Nonetheless, Kayle was content with her prediction of the ritual's outcome. Garret's emotional state, as well as his words to the Summoners around him, confirmed that the man was done running. He seemed edgy, confrontational, and <em>confident<em> – and Kayle was certain that those factors would push the spirit into admitting its intentions and in doing so, convince Garret to lock the being away permanently.

As such, when the magics keeping Garret in his mindscape started to strain, ever so slightly, she suspected Garret was finished with his little meeting. He seemed in quite a rush, going by how the incantation that kept him under started to falter under his attempts at waking. With a strict nod, High Councillor Kolminye motioned to her elite cadre of Summoners to halt the flow of magic that kept Garret anaesthetised. Slowly, one by one, they lowered their hands, each stepping back as the blanket of fluorescent magic around the former deserter dimmed. Within moments they had disappeared back into the shadows, leaving only Kayle herself and the High Councillor as Garret's wake-up party. She was unperturbed by that, though – their absence might make Garret get to the point much quicker.

No sooner had the elite Summoners disappeared, when Garret's eyes shot open and he flew into a sitting position with a deep intake of breath.

That part had gone according to predictions, Kayle thought confidently…

The former convict then turned to face the High Councillor, his emerald eyes shining and dancing in the dim lighting of the cell. The runes on the focus he was sitting on dimmed and snuffed themselves, and Garret slowly but surely shifted himself into a more comfortable position. With his legs dangling off the site of the marble furniture, and his hands braced squarely on its solid surface, the scholar sat still for a few moments, catching his breath.

_That_ part had gone according to her prediction as well…

With a shaky nod, though, he looked up – and offered the two of them a rather awkward grin.

"High Councillor," he started, his voice still shaky. "I… I may need a word with you."

…and _that_ part made her whole prediction collapse on itself.

Her throat went dry when the High Councillor merely arched an eyebrow, and showcased a rather intrigued smile. "Do you now?" She asked curiously. "You are… not as scared as you were when you went under, Garret," she noted. "There's some relief as well, I can see, but not of the type you feel when a tremendous weight is lifted off your shoulders. Why am I getting the feeling something very, very intriguing happened in your mindscape, Garret?" She asked coyly.

"Intriguing is a bit of an understatement, High Councillor," Garret responded, that awkward grin never _once_ leaving his face. "It is… It is a long story. Suffice it to say there's… _much_ more to this spirit than what one sees at first glance."

That didn't sound good…

"Is that so…" The High Councillor mused. "Well then, I suppose a more secure location is in order," she stated simply, as she started moving towards the door. "We should continue this in my office. Judicator, would you mind tagging along? I am sure you will benefit from this revelation as much as I will," she said wryly.

"…O-Of course, High Councillor," Kayle affirmed with a simple nod and folded her wings in a bit more. The journey to the High Councillor's office was one not easily undertaken by air. Besides, her wings had a habit of twitching whenever she got nervous – like now. Few had ever seen it happen, for there were few things that could actually _make_ her nervous… Unfortunately the chance of an uninhibited spirit causing chaos around the Institute was just one of those things.

Garret, who had barely paid her any notice apart from a courteous nod, hopped off the marble focus and tested his weight on each leg before strolling after the High Councillor. Kayle frowned slightly under her mask – surely someone who'd been on the run for thirteen years could tell when something malicious was about to befall them? It was impossible that Garret could be _so _foolish as to let the malicious entity have its way. Utterly impossible.

And yet… she had thought the same thing, many lifetimes ago, when her sister had first turned to the dark arts.

She grimaced under her mask, thankful that the golden armour kept her face hidden. She had been wrong then, all those millennia ago. She could only hope she wasn't wrong again…

Thus, with a concerned mind and a conflicted heart, she strode after the High Councillor.

Regardless of her opinion on the matter – she _had_ to know what Garret had learned.

* * *

><p><em><strong>One Hour Later<strong>_

The silence Garret's departure had left was deafening. On one hand, Vessaria Kolminye was _ecstatic_ at the development; truly, setting up the meeting between Garret and his tenant had been a decision that would bear more positive outcomes than detrimental ones, provided the solution the young man had offered could be pulled off. On the other hand, though, Garret was now in contact – and cohorts – with an ancient spirit only _he_ knew on a personal level now. Herself, the Judicator, the Summoners – the spirit had locked them all out in their attempts to make contact before and she highly doubted it would change its – or _her_ – outlook soon.

It would be a _delicious_ bit of irony if the spirit was having them trust Garret as implicitly as Garret trusted _her_.

Nonetheless, Garret had told them enough to fill in the blanks – or most of them, in any case. She frowned. She had _no_ idea the spirit could have determined that the Fist of Shadow was an assassin, just as she had no idea said assassin was the catalyst for Garret's macabre, twisted visions before the spirit was completely subdued. Had she known at all, she would have refrained from sending the young ninja – if a normal nurse would have resulted in those visions not occurring, who knows how much sooner Garret could have made contact…

What surprised her more was Garret's unabashed willingness to go through another Judgement if the High Councillor deemed it necessary. Despite _fervent_ – and _vocal_ – agreement from the Judicator, though, it seemed as though Garret was being truthful. While they were not exactly fast friends, she could not deny that Garret had formed some kind of positive bond with his tenant, and she was not foolish enough to try and strain that bond, no matter how much the Judicator protested non-action in regards to Garret's testimony.

Said Judicator was now seated on a chair in her office, helmet removed and wings splayed out tiredly, twitching now and then in an oddly humorous manner. "Your worries are for naught, Judicator," the High Councillor said as she took another sip from the cup of tea she had prepared for herself. "Did you detect any trace of the spirit's presence, apart from what is focused in his arm?"

"…No, High Councillor," the Judicator answered from behind the palm that covered most of her face.

"Did you detect any malice, on par with those of the other spirits that tend to run rampant? Maybe something akin to what the denizens of the Isles exude?"

"…No, High Councillor," the angelic women answered again, still not moving her armoured hand from her face.

"Do we have any _logical_ reason to assume that Garret Hillock is not in complete control of his own body and mind?" Vessaria asked, the corners of her mouth creeping up into a cattish smile. "Any _concrete_ evidence?"

"…Does my experience with the spirit count towards that?" The Judicator asked, tiredly, hopelessly.

"By experience, do you mean the part where you angered it and pushed it into seclusion?" Vessaria asked with an arched eyebrow. "If your answer is 'yes', then… no, it doesn't count."

"…Then no, High Councillor," the Judicator responded listlessly, defeated utterly. "We have no reason to assume Garret Hillock is not in complete control of his own body and mind," she parroted half-heartedly.

"Then I see no reason why his application should be denied," Vessaria said cheerily. "If anything, this is a _good_ outcome, Judicator. It will allow us to monitor the spirit, and the unique talents it possesses, in a controlled, yet fitting environment, and as a bonus we get to enlist Garret and his scholarly talents to aid the Institute on a scale _outside_ large political disputes." The Judicator merely groaned, causing Vessaria's smile to widen slightly. Slowly, she set down her cup and stood, before daintily walking over to the angelic woman's seated form. "Just because we house a large number of spirits and spectres who are malicious," she said in a lecturing manner, reaching down and seizing the angel lightly around her gauntleted arms, "does not mean _all_ of them are. Why, look at Pix! Naughty little devil, but other that as harmless as can be!" She said cheerily, giving the angel's armoured arms a tug or two.

Sighing, Kayle rose to her feet and finally pulled her hand from her face. "Please, High Councillor," she said tiredly. "Please tell me you are not comparing a spirit that _lives_ for violence and battle to the Fae Sorceress' little companion." Here, in the dim light of the High Councillor's office, with no enemies or subordinates to see her, it was obvious just just how much of a toll the Judicator's day had taken on her. "They are as different as night and day."

Vessaria, however, merely smiled. "You've had quite a day, haven't you?" She said, her cattish smile never once leaving her face. Kayle was the strong arm of the High Council, and of the Institute at large, and Vessaria knew that, despite the angelic woman's narrow-minded ways, they owed a great deal to her, for her tireless work and dedication. "It shows, on your face. Troublesome visitors?" The Judicator paused for a moment, her face still locked in that mask of stoicism despite the heavy rings under her eyes and the overall defeated look on her features. "It is just us, Kayle," Vessaria said reassuringly. "You can afford to let your guard down a bit, can't you?"

The angel pondered this for a moment, eyes dancing with contemplation, before she closed them and sighed tiredly. "Fiora. Jax. Morgana…" She said listlessly. "The usual suspects. You… You should know by now who the greater hindrance was, High Councillor."

"That I do, Kayle…" Vessaria responded softly. "The day is over, though. I suggest you go get some sleep. Even immortals require rest – no matter how much you try to convince me of the contrary." She saw Kayle ponder her request for a split second, and predictably the Judicator opened her mouth to protest. "Do I need to formally relieve you of your duties for a while, Kayle?" Vessaria silenced the complaint before it was even voiced, with a sharp gaze and a wry smile. As expected, the Judicator's jaw snapped shut, and she reluctantly averted her eyes, silently admitting defeat. "That's better. You must be exhausted. I deal with Jax on a weekly basis – just being near him saps me of my energy. And you've had to deal with Miss Laurent and Morgana as well… and now this. Truly, today must have been a trying day." Kayle still refused to make eye-contact, a fact that made Vessaria smile a bit. Despite the angel having _millennia _of experience on her, she was still an open book to Vessaria. "Go get some rest," the High Councillor repeated warmly. "I expect to see you a bit more lively tomorrow. Are we clear on this, Kayle?"

"…Yes, High Councillor," the Judicator grudgingly responded. Vessaria smiled at the response – it seemed Kayle knew well not to argue when she was being read like a book. With a resigned sigh, the angelic woman drew in her wings, and tucked her helmet under her arm, and started towards the door. "And Kayle," Vessaria called after her. The angel turned to face her superior diligently, despite her fatigue. "I know you worry about Garret's little tenant. I assure you, I will interact with him personally. The moment I suspect the spirit is manipulating him, well… You have my word that I will step in immediately."

For but a moment the angel held the High Councillor's gaze. Then, her blue eyes fluttered closed with relief, and she nodded curtly. "My thanks, High Councillor," she said softly, _exhaustedly_, and without another word she turned and left.

Vessaria remained standing for a while, smiling at the door the Judicator had left through, before shaking her head and returning to her seat. Today, fortunately, was a day she _didn't_ have to deal with Jax and his attitude and as such, she had more than ample fuel left in her. Almost eagerly she assembled a slew of papers and set to work, making preparations and organising events to fit in to the Institute's grander operations. She smiled to herself, a hint of excitement on her features. Her amber eyes twinkled and her smile slightly creased the spike-shaped tattoo ending just above her cheek, but her fatigue from the day had vanished when she heard the good news.

After all, it wasn't every day the League gained a new Champion – especially not one with two souls.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Next Day<strong>_

Once more, Jax found himself happily strolling towards his favourite bar. It was barely midday, an unusual time for anyone to be sitting in bar when there was so much daylight to burn, but he felt he had good reason to head there. Just as it was never too late to celebrate, it was also never too early – at least, in his opinion, anyway. No, after the match The Champ had just partaken in, celebration was _mandatory_ – there was being The Champ and there was being _The Champ_, and the match he was returning from definitely counted as the latter.

He recalled it all vividly – the match had been in his favour since the _moment_ it had started. He loved it when his enemies fucked up, he _really_ did. When that Laurent woman sought him out, _without_ _backup_, he knew it was going to be a good match. He didn't even need to scour the whole forest – every time, he would easily knock that petulant little bitch's block off, and _every time_ she'd just come back, more pissed off – and more unfocused. It would have been a thing of absolute _beauty_ had the woman in question not been so damn rancid.

He even managed to get back at that jackass in the diving suit for hurling an anchor into his face a few matches back – if that wasn't a bonus, he didn't know what was.

That Laurent woman approached him after the match, in all her uppity, nose-in-the-air glory. He wished he could have bottled the look of outrage on her face – he'd bet that was the missing ingredient Gragas was looking for. It would've made for some _epic_ grog, that much he was sure of. The little brat muttered something about their 'business' not being 'settled'. "This isn't over," he recalled her saying.

He chuckled to himself. Silly little girl – it couldn't be over because it didn't even have a start. It was 'over' the moment she declared him her 'rival' – her little brain was just too primitive to comprehend that.

Yes, the Grandmaster at Arms was in an absolutely _wonderful_ mood when he swung open the door to his favourite bar and stepped inside as though he owned the place (which was almost true, considering The Champ is the main attraction anywhere he goes and thus, the bar's largest source of clientele). His mood was _so_ good he wasn't even surprised when he saw Gragas and Garret sitting at the counter, laughing about something and drinking away as though nothing mattered. "Oi," he called to them jovially. "Ain't it too early to be getting drunk?" He questioned, not at all hypocritically. Not at all.

"Never too late an' never too early, bub," Gragas responded with a slurry voice. "Get over 'ere already! We's celebrating and you're missin' out!"

"Celebrating, eh?" Jax chuckled, eagerly taking a seat, setting his lamppost aside and placing his usual order. "What are we celebrating?" He asked as he turned to his friends. Gragas merely grinned, undoubtedly already shitfaced – but seriously, when was he not? Garret, though… Garret seemed remarkably sober. But there was something different about the lad, Jax noted. He seemed… more relaxed. Less troubled, you could say. The Champ was certain he was missing something else – not that he'd admit it – but Garret's cheerful expression clued him in to main cause for celebration easily enough. "I'm thinking your meeting with your little tenant went better than expected, eh?" Jax guessed.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Garret admitted with a skew grin. He shifted his mug to his normal hand and raised his twisted arm a bit, and immediately Jax snapped what was different – that golden suppression chain was missing in action. "Suffice it to say we have… reached a compromise," he said cheerily.

"I'll be damned," Jax said with a chuckle. "You actually heeled her? Or is there something I'm missing?"

"'Heeled' is a rather poor word to use," Garret said hesitantly. "The spirit and I have reached a point of… mutual agreement, you could say. Might be a bit early to tell, but I would guess I wholly misunderstood what happened after the incident at the ruin."

"You mean it's not a fight-crazy monster?" Jax guessed.

"Oh, she's 'fight-crazy', make no mistake," Garret said with a short laugh. "She is… quite taken with you as well. I wouldn't call her 'monstrous' though. There is… much more that needs to be understood on that end of the spectrum." As he spoke, Jax noticed something. Around the green hue of Garret's eyes, there was something different – a hint of red peeking out around the iris.

"Yo, bud," Jax said, tapping his own mask where his eyes were. "You got something in your eye."

"Oh, I know," Garret said, grinning once more. "I am aware. It is little to worry about, though… It's her. She is merely… looking. Through my eyes."

At first, Jax's immediate instinct was to question the hell out of this bullshit. He seemed to have missed a major detail somewhere because apparently the thing that had tried to kill him in that ruin near the river was now being all chummy with his new bud. Had the circumstances been even _marginally_ different The Champ would have _refused_ to let such horseshit stand without a proper explanation – especially considering how happy the bitch in Garret's arm had seemed with the idea of peppering the Chickadee and himself with bloody weaponry. However, something halted The Champ – something made him reconsider. Garret himself seemed… _okay_ with the situation at hand. It seemed as though whatever was said between him and that bloodthirsty bitch lead to Garret not minding having to share a body with an ancient, ax-crazy spirit, and that, in turn, had led to something the former deserter had not known until now:

_Peace_.

That alone made The Champ refrain, albeit grudgingly, from asking too many questions. He still didn't trust the thing in Garret's arm one bit, but he had to digress: if Garret was okay with it, he didn't have much right to argue.

"Well, it ain't what I would've done…"

What? Just because he wouldn't argue didn't mean he wouldn't disagree.

"…But I'm happy for ya, bud," Jax finished, clapping the ex-Demacian on the shoulder heartily. "Here's to hoping you can get a few nights' worth of decent rest, eh? So is that what we're celebrating? No more mindfuckery, no more 'kill-them-all' moments? Just you and your pet spirit livin' out your days in relative peace?"

"'Relative' would be the key term, yes," Garret agreed. "Although that is only a fraction of the reason. I am drinking both to celebrate, and to build my strength for the coming days." Jax shot him an inquisitive look, relayed even from under his mask, and Garret chuckled again. "I _did_ confirm the spirit is quite bloodthirsty, didn't I, Jax? You can't honestly believe such a being would just step back and abandon something they live for."

"Wait, wait, wait," Jax said, bringing his hand up to try and halt the conversation. "I thought you said you reached a compromise?"

"And we did," Garret said plainly as he took another sip of his grog. "I get my freedom, and my peace, and, well… she gets her freedom, and her beloved combat." He shrugged. "The circumstances are far from ideal or idyllic, but I digress, it is something I cannot find inherent fault with," he said cheerily.

"How in the fuck did you manage that?" Jax asked curiously. "I mean, I saw that woman in the ruin, and – no offense meant, bud – she looked more than just 'quite bloodthirsty'. That bitch was aiming to kill us, y'know? Now I don't take offense, obviously a lot of people want to kill me because, y'know, they're _not_ me and can't handle that fact," he said, and politely ignored the dismissive snort Gragas gave in response, "but that woman was out for _blood_ in that ruin. How do you intend to sate that?"

"By doing what you did, of course," Garret said offhandedly as he resumed the task of finishing his grog.

"Now just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jax asked, already fed up with this riddling bullshit. Honestly, was it that fucking difficult just to say something straight and plain? Fuckin' hell, what was it with Demacians and fancy, eloquent ways of saying stuff?

"Think, ya lout," Gragas laughed heartily. "You ain't just talkin' to some clever boy anymore, Jax – you're talkin' to the League's newest Champion!"

For a few moments, an awkward silence reigned during which Jax alternated his gaze between Gragas and Garret. Finally, he shook his head and looked Garret dead in the eye. "Is he serious, bud? Have you really joined the League of Legends?"

"I have," Garret nodded, setting down his mug. "It will be quite a chore, and a joint effort at that," he said, somewhat contemplatively. "But I think that is a better solution in the long run."

"You're _damn right_ it is!" Jax said loudly, all of a sudden. His voice has inflected by several octaves, and there was an undercurrent of amusement beneath the waves of bass. "Damn, bud! I didn't think you had it in ya!" The Champ said heartily, giving the former deserter another clap on the shoulder. "Now see, why in the hell couldn't you have said that in the first place? D'you have any idea how many minutes of drunken celebration we've missed out on? Fuckin' hell, Poet Boy, this is great news!" He said, ordering another round of grog. "So who's gonna be in control, hmm? You or her?"

"It will vary at times," Garret said with an awkward grin, "but mostly it will be her holding the reins – especially when the going gets tough. After spending so long trapped in that sword, well, I figure she deserves some time without my inhibition holding her down."

"You'll still be there though, right?" Jax laughed. "If she can 'look' through your eyes I'd say you should be able to look through hers as well. Damn, this is gonna be brilliant. Just imagine, the three-er, _four_ of us traipsing around the Fields of Justice, kicking ass and taking names! Give it time, bud, you'll see soon enough there's a lot of fun to be found in opening cans of asskicking."

"Easy now, Jax," Garret grinned, that same skew grin that was characteristic of him. "I still very much prefer fleeing over fighting, but… I digress, if nothing else the experience should be amusing."

"You'll change your mind soon enough," Jax chuckled. "But we're getting sidetracked! Too much talking, not enough drinking – c'mon!" He said, raising his mug. "You're a Champion of the Institute now, Garret. You remember last night, you told me you're drinking to a 'new beginning'? Well? You think this is that beginning, bud?"

For but a moment, Jax caught sight of that brief hesitation in Garret's green eyes. He was honestly not surprised – Garret was no fighter, and participation on the Fields of Justice would no doubt be a new and completely alien experience for him. But almost immediately, that hesitation disappeared and a smile bloomed on Garret's face, and in that moment Jax knew: courage had become a much more common trait for Garret Hillock. Time would tell how long the self-claimed 'cowardice' would remain, especially around himself and Gragas – but at least the dude had some friends to help him along.

Under his mask, Jax's eyes fell on the twisted, blackened arm Garret now freely displayed. As if noticing his gaze it pulsed red once, _fleetingly_ before dying down.

He didn't trust that bitch just yet – but Garret did, it seemed…

…and for now, that was good enough for The Champ.

"I would guess it is, Jax," Garret answered his question. "I would guess it is."

"Well then! That means me need something new to drink to, eh?" Jax said boastfully. "Any ideas, lads?"

"How about a simpler life, finally?" Garret ventured a guess.

"And good times!" Gragas threw in, "and good grog!"

"That's it, then!" Jax said eagerly. "To a simpler life, good times, good grog," he paused for a moment, before uttering a manic chuckle, "and _tons_ of ass-kicking!"

And at that final line, Garret's arm glowed brightly in agreement.

* * *

><p>Their little 'celebration' lasted well into the afternoon. Between Jax and Gragas, stories about conquests on the Fields of Justice were aplenty. Garret idly noted Jax was telling them about a woman named 'Laurent' – likely a family name, as he remembered a House Laurent in Demacia's nobler district – and how she was incapable of knowing that 'The Champ' is, was, and always will be her better. The stories ranged from intense to silly, and all of them equally humorous – Garret personally enjoyed the tale where Jax had beaten down the Laurent woman with nothing but a fishing rod he was using prior to the little battle.<p>

And yet… something bothered him. Whenever they would talk about Garret's latest accomplice they would always refer to her as 'the spirit', 'your tenant' or 'that bitch', in Jax's case. A day ago, when he was still caught up in the wave of crippling terror at the prospect of speaking with her, this wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest – she _was _a spirit in his arm, after all, and back then, that would have suited him just fine.

But after last night's proceedings… After learning so much about her, and now finally having a personality to add to her general description, referring to her simply as 'spirit' was starting to seem a bit mundane. It felt cringy, in a way, in the same vein referring to Jax as 'Mercenary' would feel. Impersonal, yes, but very crass – very uncaring.

She was still there, though – he _felt_ her in the back of his mind, and that alien warmth in his eyes and ears told her she was still listening, and still looking, and offhandedly he noted a sense of relaxed contentedness that certainly wasn't his own. '_Say,'_ he thought inwardly, hoping his new ally would hear, '_Spirit? Are you there?'_

"_Host?" _The response came almost immediately, and Garret smiled into his mug at the ease which he could contact her. "_Does something trouble you? There is… a weight, on your mind. Nothing dark, but still noticeable…_"

'_Indeed, something troubles me,'_ he admitted to her. _'I am experiencing discomfort with a factor of our agreement,'_ he said, letting the words hang between them a bit. '_I have yet to receive a name I am to call you by.'_

"…_A name?"_ She responded, and Garret had to fight an utterly incredulous reaction at just how _dumbfounded_ the spirit had sounded. "_It has been so long… My life feels as though it occurred eons ago…"_ She mused. "_Yes… I remember now… I shed my true name early in life. I found it distasteful… unfitting. There existed a people, in those days,"_ she said softly, "_who called me by something else. It was a word I eventually took as my new name."_

'_Oh? Pray tell, then,'_ Garret urged her.

"_Are names not for the living, host?" _the spirit questioned, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. "_What use have I for one? I will only ever be known as a spirit to your peers."_

'_But not to me,'_ Garret replied, trying his best to have his thoughts sound 'reassuring'. '_What I saw during our meeting… If that wasn't someone 'alive' then I do not know what is. Come on,' _he urged her. '_Surely you do not want me referring to you as 'spirit' for the rest of our days do you?'_

"…_You speak sense,"_ the spirit admitted, grudgingly. She remained silent then, for a good while, and Garret took this time to take another sip from his mug. "_I suppose there is no harm… My life was so long ago, it is… safe, to assume that I have been long forgotten,"_ she said softly. "_Furia. My name… is Furia." _

'_Furia, hmm…' _Garret rolled the name around in his mind. Ever the scholar he immediately caught on to the language it was spoken in, and repressed a wry grin at the knowledge. '_Oddly fitting,' _he thought humorously, '_and oddly ironic, that a being who adores combat is named after fury.'_ He chuckled aloud, into his mug, and was slightly thankful that the grog within it captured the sound. Gragas, he noted, was telling Jax about a recent match on the Fields of Justice where he apparently got a 'fox girl' drunk in the middle of combat. '_Oddly fitting,'_ Garret repeated, '_and not at all a bad name. Well met, Furia.'_

And although slight, Garret felt the warmth in his mind intensify, ever so slightly.

"_Yes… Well met… Garret…"_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Aaaaand done!**

**Phew. Well, like I said, this just wouldn't get finished - but finally, finally, it is.**

**Well I _would_ love to say 'The plot thickens', but seeing as I have no idea how this chapter will be received, I can't just yet.**

**We finally have a look into the spirit's personality, both the ax-crazy side and the more controlled one, as well as a name - hopefully you guys find Furia as interesting as you've found Garret to be.**

**You'll notice I've also included another champion in this chapter - Nasus, everyone's favourite late-game steam engine - as well as an expansion for the personality of Kayle, the highly dutiful, highly professional yet narrow-minded and often red-taped Judicator. How was it? Did I capture them in a believable way? Did I take too many liberties? Let me know - I am eager to fix any flaws I might have made.**

**Nonetheless, you have my sincerest thanks for taking the time to read this chapter. Special thanks go out to everyone who took the time to review, and even more thanks to Unseen Lurker for the stellar PM Review. You guys really helped motivate me into getting this out.**

**Until the next chapter, though, I bid farewell - and once more, many thanks for the support :)**

**-C**


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